


Silly Little Songs

by thatsrightdollface



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Human, F/M, M/M, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-01
Updated: 2015-07-18
Packaged: 2017-12-31 05:02:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 42,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1027527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatsrightdollface/pseuds/thatsrightdollface
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roderich is a high schooler with proud ambitions and a row of trophies lined up by his mantle at home -- it just so happens that he's also stuck with a failing relationship, a stubborn streak the size of Europe and a really annoying companion in detention every day.  Gilbert got him into this mess -- though of course he's not telling how or why, or even necessarily admitting any fault whatsoever.  <br/>Roderich's also teaching Gilbert to play the piano on a piece of paper... And his jailer is an English teacher with pigtails and an unsettling taste for the macabre.  He'd rather just go home, please.</p><p>This is a story I'm writing for my friend's birthday present -- I'm tossing it out into the world because she says the internet needs more PruAus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SearchingForMercury](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SearchingForMercury/gifts).



Roderich had never been so humiliated in his entire life, that was certain, and it was high time the classmate responsible learned a bit of shame. It was too much to wish for, of course. There they were, crammed together in a stuffy basement room, the carpet a putrid blend of vomit-stain brown and rust, no windows, no ceiling fan, only their warden for company. There they were for hours after school, bound every day for the next four weeks, future punishments pending. The school was still busy gathering information about their crime, but the fact that some details remained a bit fuzzy couldn’t change the fact that they were shamed. Shamed in the eyes of their teachers and their parents. 

Gilbert couldn’t be less bothered. 

“Hey, Roddy, check it – I drew something _awesome_ on the back of my test, and the teacher didn’t even notice! Pfffffft!”

“She probably noticed and just had nothing to say.” Roderich snuck a quick glance at the so-called “awesome” doodle – Gilbert couldn’t draw, and whatever was on the back of that crumpled-up quiz was possibly a gigantic, livable tank, possibly some kind of air-battleship. It was manned by far too many stick figures, and it looked like a lot of thought had been put into it for some inane reason. Each little scribble-man had a specific task – some were labeled, given lists of functions. Roderich turned back to his book. It was a biography. Chopin. Roderich didn’t expect Gilbert to ask about the book, let alone fathom its appeal. Lord, he’d been such a dunce going along with Gilbert’s plan to begin with. Lizzie didn’t know the whole story, but it was only a matter of time. 

“What the hell, Roderich?” she’d smiled, uncertain. “People are saying you helped Gilbert change student records, or something.”

“People? What kind of people?” he had burst out like an idiot. Always playing the fool, wasn’t he? And now he was here; Gilbert’s hair looked like he’d just rolled out of bed and ruffled it a bit this morning, and he was wearing one of those black and white checkerboard belts Roderich imagined “scene” or “Goth” or “hipster” kids picked up from Hot Topic. Gilbert’s skin was pale enough that royal blue veins showed through by one of his temples, and his ears stuck out a bit. He needed to stop smiling. Immediately. Roderich was in no mood for nonsense.

At the front of the classroom, their warden – the English lit teacher Ms. Kirkland – thumbed through a Gothic horror anthology and giggled to herself. She was kind of an odd one, with strawberry-blonde pigtails and a face made up mostly of freckles. She had her headphones in, too, hooked into a battered iPhone that looked like it had taken a hundred or so tumbles from the top of the school. According to legend, Ms. Kirkland had once snuck some of the English honors students up onto the roof for a congratulatory picnic. She wasn’t listening.

“Leave me alone or I swear I’ll tell them how things really happened. Your brother should be here –”

“Shh – shut up! Not so loud!” Gilbert’s whole body twitched forward as though jerking along with an electric shock; his head rocked toward Ms. Kirkland so quickly Roderich could’ve sworn he heard bones crack. “Luddy – Ludwig doesn’t need to be a part of this. I swear, four week’s detention is nothing. You think I haven’t seen worse? We’re damn lucky!”

“I’m not surprised that you’ve seen worse. I, however, have never had detention in my life, and... Let’s just sit here, alright?” Roderich wanted to bury his face in his arms; he’d worn a deep navy sweater with tears up the sleeves that he just didn’t have the heart to throw out. It smelled like his house, with all the fragrant candles and wood furniture polished to shine. It smelled like a safe place where only the mirrors along the wall watched you and you didn’t have to talk to anybody. It was sort of like rich, hot comfort food reincarnated in sweater form.

“What do you think Alice is listening to?” When Gilbert smiled, Roderich always thought he looked kind of like a Disney villain about to begin in on his evil scheme monologue. 

“Who?”

“Ms. Kirkland. I think she’s probably listening to show tunes, like _Sweeney Todd_ or _Mary Poppins_ or something else equally British. Or maybe Ke$ha. Maybe death metal. Do you like death metal?”

Roderich ground his fingers into his eyes, pressing so deeply he could see spurts of angry red against his eyelids. “I’m missing weeks’ worth of piano lessons because of this, and it will, of course, take weeks to recover the lost time. So, if you don’t mind…” He was already able to pour his emotions into the pieces he’d learned; his teacher said he emoted better through the keys than his voice, which was possibly a somewhat backhanded compliment. Roderich didn’t care. They were juniors now, and his technique could always, _must_ always improve. His repertoire had to expand. Soon he’d be putting his playing up against who knows how many other people’s, because if he went to a fancy music school that’d be just another step towards the concert hall. 

Imagining himself in an orchestra or performing as part of a musical theater ensemble was fine, but Roderich could see himself crossing that stage solo, wearing a modest tux, eyes downcast. Dust would shiver in the spotlight. The crowd would be hushed, so still he’d be able to hear individual dresses rustle. He could imagine himself playing, just his piano, his truest voice, and all those waiting ears. He could communicate so much – he could be so much. At the very least, he could surely be more than a bitter old music teacher, coaching squirming, snot-nosed brats just learning to toot into recorders and make triangles go “ding.” 

“God, I thought you must play _something_ like the piano! Violin, flute, I dunno, one of those flouncy instruments.” Gilbert often sounded like he was patting himself on the back. Here, he thumped Roderich’s shoulder; his hands were remarkably small and delicately shaped, up close. It was only now that Roderich noticed his clean fingernails. 

“Well, congratulations, I guess. I do.”

Gilbert didn’t even miss a beat before demanding, “Teach me. We’ve got four weeks. That’s enough time. I’m awesome at picking things up fast. I bet I could catch up to you!” His folders and such were actually arranged very neatly in his backpack, Roderich saw. Perhaps he was a fairly tidy person after all, despite all the unnecessary buckles on his boots. Roderich tried to think back – had he ever known Gilbert to fail a test?

“How would I teach you? We’re locked in a windowless, soulless, piano-less room.”

That was when Ms. Kirkland – Alice? – with the huge doe eyes and little-girly voice tapped at her iPhone and exclaimed – “And how are you today, Mr. Blue Sky?”

Gilbert and Roderich both stared at her a moment, and then glanced at each other, not quite in sync but close enough that for a moment they were almost on the same page. Roderich wet his lips and whispered, “What...?” He was thinking of the masked, ancient gods in the books Ms. Kirkland taught, thinking of the white-clad maidens who end up soaked in someone else’s blood. He was thinking of how she collapsed in dizzy fits of laughter in the classroom when she talked about how all those oysters get eaten up in the Lewis Carroll poem, those dear trusting little idiots, led to a quick and convenient demise, how she asked silly riddles and clearly liked it best when nobody knew the answer. She’d crinkle up her eyes and tap her chin, tell them to remember the rhyme so they could trick someone else. 

“Doing pretty well, Ma’am, and yourself?” Gilbert said. He nodded, cocky, and Ms. Kirkland giggled again. Roderich could trace her line of sight to well over their heads, dangling about where the brick wall was consumed by plaster ceiling.

She tittered, “Yes, yes, I’ll be back in time for the movie. I’ll pick up pizza if you’re a good boy and stop pestering me about it! 

Gilbert met Roderich’s gaze and snickered. His eyes were usually kind of manic, for lack of a better word, but now for some reason the intensity on his face was almost hilarious. They laughed, Gilbert brazen and coarse, Roderich in a throaty, relieved chuckle. This teacher would be here every day, after all, same as them. She’d be making her way through books, perhaps texting, perhaps just lulling them into a false sense of security so she could piece together the rest of their crime. For just a moment, Roderich felt a sliver of regret surface inside him – suppose she had heard about Ludwig escaping punishment? Suppose she deemed that little morsel something worth looking into? You never know. 

Gilbert had come to detention himself without any struggle, but for some reason the idea of Ludwig facing the music seemed to get him all shivery, made him slam on the breaks. His little brother was a sophomore, and a huge one at that. The football team simply wouldn’t leave him alone he was so big and tough, but Gilbert still kind of babied him, it seemed. Ludwig was blonde and clean-cut; he had piercing blue eyes, somewhat shy and guarded to match his brother’s crazed red ones, darting all over the place. Red eyes, yes. Roderich had assumed they were contacts at first, something intended to be edgy or hip or what have you, but apparently Gilbert was albino, at least according to him. Roderich still sometimes looked for the telltale outline of lenses along his irises, but no such luck as of yet. 

He thought about apologizing for decrying Ludwig so loudly, perhaps, or maybe just for inspiring Gilbert’s panic. He didn’t, of course. There were other issues at hand, and anyway... It was quite plain that if he were to give the guy an inch, he’d take the whole continent. Kindness to someone like that could easily get out of hand.

“Mr. Blue Sky is her husband, I guess?” Roderich said, instead.

Gilbert was still snickering – he hissed out, “Holy shit,” –and their literature professor was still talking. Now she rolled her eyes and twirled one of her long pigtails around in her hand. 

“Al, stop it! Stop it! I’m in detention – I’m watching those boys, the ones that cracked the – I love you, too, Al. Good bye. Go away. Get yourself ready for your bloody movie!”

“Al,” Roderich whispered, wrinkling his nose.

“Huh. I wonder if it bothers him that she talks about dismembering babies and the different effects of poisons in class.”

“Love is patient; love is kind.” Roderich grinned, but Gilbert just shrugged; his hoodie had stripes up the arms and a slogan on the back that didn’t make any sense. Perhaps it would mean something witty or fun to people in the know, but Gilbert was often alone on campus. Like Roderich, actually. Maybe there were people who got his jokes and references around here, but then again, maybe not. Could be it was only Ludwig.

Now, when he’d be willing to talk, now was when they sat in silence. Roderich returned to his book, smoothing down the pages, imagining himself whisked back in time to the age nestled inside, or some other, any other period that would be somehow better. Roderich imagined he would’ve fit in far easier had he been born ages past, before cellphones and skinny jeans, back when classical music was still thought revolutionary, still intended for mass consumption. Back when people said Sir and Ma’am all the time, when it was normal to be a little formal and standoffish, concerned what to say. Gilbert took out a notebook and scribbled; his broad strokes squeaked against the paper. Roderich tried not to wonder what he was drawing. Sometimes Gilbert counted to himself, and sometimes it seemed like he was trying to turn the whole sheet of notebook paper a glossy pencil-stroke grey. 

Finally, he announced, “There! Look – my plan is pretty much perfect, right?” Gilbert’s voice was too loud after a period of near-silence; it was like a splatter of ice water down Roderich’s back. He winced and turned to face him and his pretty much perfect plan.

“You drew a keyboard. Does it even have the right amount of keys?”

“Obviously I drew a keyboard. Now, show me middle C. Then you can teach me songs.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I make a lot of references in this story -- here, I talk a bit about musicals and have Alice incorporate the song "Mister Blue Sky" by ELO. It's a good song.


	2. "Hot-Cross Buns" -- Or, the Past Looks Awfully Bright from Here

Roderich told everyone that his earliest memory featured himself along a grey pebble-beach, the water nibbling at his feet and the sky like a thick canopy leaning in too close to the earth. He didn’t really remember all that; he knew his feet had been numb, and even though the sky was grey and the ground and water were greyer still there had still been a kind of glare all around.  


He knew he had been chasing a dog; not his dog, mind, but just one that happened to be on the beach. He wanted to touch its dirty back, but it didn’t seem to care much for him. It yipped, it darted away. So Roderich could already walk in the memory, he said. He’d end the story there, but his mother wouldn’t – she’d go on about how he’d been so frustrated, so adorably frustrated. He’d yelled at the dog, and everyone cooed. They had pictures in some photo album or another, surely. Roderich’s mother probably had a thousand pictures of him saved on the computer.  


He liked to look kind of pensive when he told people about memories, recalling how things had been when he first played a song on the piano or when he’d first realized he had a chance with Lizzie, the girl he’d thought he was going to marry. It made everything feel important, like because he had been proud perched on that stool in the music store it meant he was destined to be great. Like because Lizzie had leaned in to him, not anyone else, and whispered, “I forgot to bring my book today,” it meant he had been destined to scoot his text between them so they could read together. Their shoulders were meant to brush. She would roll her eyes when he talked about it. Or, she used to. He wasn’t sure what she’d do nowadays.  


Lizzie. Her real name was Elizabeta, which Roderich would use every day if she let him. No, she wanted to be Lizzie. She used to tell him he was so steady for her, so patient, and such a classy guy. Roderich had big dreams; he would be a famous musician, of course, and she would be a leader, a fighter. They would both be somebody. It wasn’t really that she didn’t say that sort of thing anymore. It was that they were sitting here together outside the school and he could barely feel her hand in his.  


He squeezed harder and she said, “Geez – you’re hurting me.” She smiled, and Roderich resisted the urge to smooth back her flyaway bangs. They were reading together, waiting for her mom’s Prius, waiting for another session in the detention-room dungeon with a Wiccan (supposedly) English teacher and Gilbert. Lizzie and Gilbert had been friends in elementary school; they’d stuck gum on the underside of Roderich’s desk. They’d called him Miss Priss, and when he’d said it didn’t make sense because Lizzie really _was_ a girl they’d just laughed and said he didn’t get the joke.  


“I could take you to get dinner tomorrow,” Roderich said. He’d tucked his scarf into his coat three times in the mirror that morning, making sure he knew how to do it like elegant guys in European television shows. “I could borrow the car.” Lizzie had asked him out that past September, in the school hallway right by the band room. She’d been blunt, without the slightest whiff of romance. She’d just said, “Hey, go to the dance with me?” and the best part was that it hadn’t even been a Sadie Hawkins affair. That had been the first and only time Roderich had seen her wear a dress, and now it was October and their breath made the air go fuzzy around their faces. “We could go somewhere nice.”  


“We never go anywhere nice. What’s up with you? Going to crack open the piggybank for me _now_ ?” She sort of smirked on the “now,” like it was a while after he should’ve, or maybe like it was just a funny time to crack anything open at all. It was the kind of face she made when joke-scolding the little kids she babysat. It was cute, but Roderich hated having to read her expressions, hunt out little nuances and implications. He wanted to sit her down and play a bunch of piano pieces for her, tell her “Pick the one that’s like your mood.” Maybe then, if he understood her, he’d know when a smile was just a smile vs. when it was a hint.  


“I don’t have a piggybank anymore. If you must know, I have a stack of jars in my closet.”  


Once upon a time that would have inspired at least an embarrassed chuckle, but now she licked her lips, eyes darting to the road, to the rows of cars caked in week-old snow slumped in the parking lot. Their windshields were mostly dirty, but they still managed to catch the sun. “Seriously, what’s with you lately? We’re here because you have detention.”  


“You’ve had detention before.” Angry heat surged to Roderich’s cheeks. She didn’t have to sound like she was saying he had a disease. She didn’t have to arch her eyebrows like that, like she was laughing, going “What the hell?” again. She thought she knew everything he said, exactly what he did every day, all the little things that made him the steady, classy guy she knew. He wanted to be that guy, he did. If he could be that guy and they could be happy forever, that’s really all he would have needed.  
Lizzie rested her chin on her hand, watching him. She was wearing some sports team’s hoodie, and there were flower barrettes in her hair. She’d taken to putting on makeup, just recently. It wasn’t a lot, but there it was in the flush of her cheeks. “For talking in class,” she said. “I’ve gotten detention twice, for talking. And punching Ivan. What did you even _do_?”  


“I…” Roderich thought about spilling himself out to her, stupid secrets splashing over the sidewalk and the brownish grass their school usually gave up on around this time of year. He imagined her holding him to her, his face nestled against her neck, her breaths calm, in and out, her hand rubbing up and down his back almost roughly, too tenderly to be gentle or sweet. He thought of her going, “Poor baby,” in the sarcastic way she had. The thought made his eyes sting, but only a little. By the time he thought of the words he would’ve said next she was back into her book. She was reading a biology textbook with furrowed eyebrows.  


“Please let me take you out tomorrow,” Roderich said.  


“Yeah,” she answered. She didn’t look up. Roderich remembered the way his mother mimicked him fuming at that errant dog on the long-ago beach, the way she stomped her foot and said he was never very good at being told “No.” She’d probably had to distract him with collecting pebbles or singing together or something like that. Apparently he’d asked her days later why the doggy hadn’t liked him.  


When Lizzie’s mother showed up, she stood quickly. She said she loved him, and he said he loved her, too. He wanted her to kiss him, but realized too late that he should have stood up to kiss her, instead. He’d almost finished Chopin’s biography. Lizzie often called him “pretentious” like it was a compliment, but when she was gone he felt kind of silly, and suddenly really cold.  


He went into detention early. Alice – Ms. Kirkland? – was already there, with her feet propped on the desk and the book _Good Omens_ (by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman, apparently) balanced precariously on her knees. She was wearing slippers and holding an old-fashioned tin of rainbow taffies. She offered them to Roderich as he passed by to get to his desk, just a lazy flick of her wrist and, “Evening, Delinquent Number One.” His hands still burned from the cold, but when he accidentally took two of the stupidly bright candies she didn’t say a word. He plopped himself down and reread the same page of his biography a couple times before Gilbert came in. He paused by Alice’s desk for what must have been three minutes or so combing through the candies to choose just the right colors. He ended up taking a full handful, which he spread out on his desk and started arranging in little patterns. Gilbert’s arms had ballpoint pen tattoos all up them today – it looked like he had scribbled a map on his skin.  


“So today was pretty much horrible,” he beamed, shrugging. He was fidgeting constantly, Roderich noticed, scooting candies around his desk, glancing at the dirty wall over his shoulder, tapping his foot into the carpet. “My partner in world history was MIA, a no-show, and I had to adlib a shit ton of our presentation.” Roderich’s eyes flicked over to Alice when the idiot said “shit,” but either she didn’t hear or she didn’t care. She was chewing. “I think I kicked butt on my own, though. I mean… What else could I have done? Didn’t leave me much choice.”  


“Oh,” said Roderich. He didn’t even try to summon feeling into his voice. “Naturally.”  


Alice shifted; her chair creaked. She announced, “We don’t think any of the fakety-fake scores you guys entered were from world history class, so you were probably just fine.” She sounded sleepy and cross today, like a cat you’ve just pried off your lap and put on the floor. “Of course, most of the grades you lot changed _had_ to be from my class, right? That’s why I’m involved, now.” Ms. Kirkland’s classes were notoriously difficult – she was a rough grader who apparently expected her students to read at the speed of lightning. Roderich knew from personal experience that she didn’t believe in extra credit, but he usually managed to scrape Bs in her classes. Until recently, he’d considered himself accomplished.  


“So you’re here to show people you’re extra angry at us?” Gilbert asked.  


“What else could be done? You didn’t leave me much choice.” Alice grinned wickedly over her knees and flipped to the next page in her novel.  


Gilbert laughed, and in that moment Roderich realized what a great conman he could’ve been in another life. Too crazy optimistic for his own good, and of course there were still no traces of shame anywhere. He looked amused, nothing more. It’s as though her taunts didn’t even register. “And here I thought you’d signed up to be our detention warden because we’re your favorite students.”  


“No need to feel so special. I’ve got a name to protect, too.”  


“I didn’t know about any changed grades, Ma’am,” Roderich said. Even as he spoke he knew his voice was coming out sort of whiny, wheedling. He wished he could retry, give the line another few goes the same way he’d practiced tying his scarf before coming to school. Like he could play and replay piano pieces until he got the feel just right, captured just the impression he’d meant to convey from the very beginning. Gilbert’s smug little smile was back, and Roderich had the feeling he’d be looking at it for the next few hours. He felt sick.  


Alice shot him a look and said, “Watch it.” She unwrapped another taffy and went back to reading. Her slippers had pale yellow flowers on them – they looked like something a kindly old grandma might waddle around in.  


Roderich waited a minute, watching Gilbert shuffle candies around. He got bored pretty fast and shoved them in his backpack. How sweet, all his folders were labeled. He was a studious idiot. There was “World History,” and, oh yes, Alice’s British literature course. Roderich watched her for a moment, but she seemed utterly wrapped up in her own business so he hissed, “Gilbert, do you know anything about changed grades?” He wanted that smile to flicker; he wanted an explanation, he wanted to be walking home, or preparing for the Piano Guild competition later on this year so he could blow the judges out of the water, or even eating dinner with his parents. He wanted to explain the truth, make everything plain as day so he could sit back and watch the inevitable unfold, but that felt a little too much like waltzing off a cliff for his liking.  


Probably there was a stupid part of Roderich’s brain that still believed they could get out of this easily. The detention period would pass; there wouldn’t be enough information collected to really lay blame fairly any which way. He and Gilbert claimed it had been a system error, and who knows? The school was incompetent and slow. Roderich could still graduate with honors. The suspicion might never fade, but they were innocent until proven guilty, right? Maybe Roderich was just as bad as Gilbert, in the end, optimistic and blind, selfish and dumb. At least he wasn’t the one who had just pulled out a piece of paper with a scribbly piano drawn on it.  


“You forgot you were teaching me how to play, didn’t you?” Gilbert said. He waggled his finger. “Thankfully, I have a great memory. Great head for dates, too – seriously, ask me about my world history presentation. Sneak preview – it was about the best king ever.”  


“I’m not going to teach you to play the piano on a piece of paper. I should have never agreed to that.”  


“Freddie the Great. Frederick. That’s who I presented on – this guy was all kinds of awesome. Also people put potatoes on his grave in tribute, because he got Prussians to start eating them way back –” Gilbert talked with his hands when he got really excited about some strange thing or another – he mimed putting potatoes on some imaginary grave. He mimed eating said spuds with a fork. He swung a sword, presumably at encroaching enemy forces. In a way, it reminded Roderich of Lizzie’s enthusiastic sports stories, the kind of tales that wouldn’t usually usher him in. He didn’t care a whit who won the Super Bowl, but the game became almost charming when he saw her light up talking about it.  


How many action movies had been described to him with dramatic, sweeping arm movements, her eyes ablaze with this same kind of intensity? Really, Roderich couldn’t bring himself to care too much about most stories, but it was always kind of different when he came along for the ride with someone else. If he let himself, he knew he could really care about Gilbert’s old dead king so-and-so. Not that he could let that happen. Going along for the ride with Gilbert was totally different than letting Lizzie share with him, right?  


“Listen, I don’t want to deal with this right now.”  


“Then teach me a song.” Maybe Gilbert looked a little crestfallen, but not in the right way. Not in the guilty, repentant sort of way Roderich had been hoping for. He’d started doodling on his wrist again, and Roderich made a point of refusing to look at the squiggly paths he drew. He could humor him again just to shut him up; that sounded fair enough. Roderich still needed to decide where he’d be booking reservations for the next night, for this second chance to see Lizzie in a dress. His Lizzie, with tangles in her hair and Band-Aids up her legs. He was thinking somewhere really classy. He could afford it – spending money felt like giving away little pieces of his own personal solidity, after all, just like losing something or leaving it behind usually felt like he’d misplaced a bit of himself. Too personal, almost frightening. His things needed to be kept close lest he feel exposed. Lizzie said it wasn’t healthy to get so attached to material possessions. In the end, it just meant he had a lot of things, a lot of money stuffed in his closet or shipped away to the bank to wait for him.  


“Any song will do?”  


Gilbert slipped his pen back into his bag and turned to face Roderich, hands folded together on the table like a parody of the perfect student. The circles under his eyes were darker today; Roderich wondered if that was why his voice sometimes felt a little too strained, a little too wild. Maybe that was just Gilbert, or perhaps he was shambling around perpetually sleep deprived. Apparently he was some kind of avid gamer, fiddling away with computers and that sort of nonsense. He smiled, though, and Roderich loathed the cuddly, patronizing tone of his voice. “Anything your little heart desires,” he said, and the words felt kind of like a verbal pat on the head.  


Roderich dragged the sheet of paper over to him and found the right three keys. “This is ‘Hot-Cross Buns,’” he said. “The easiest song I know. It’s sung by babies all over the place; see, there are only these three notes. It goes like this.” Roderich swept his fingers over the make-believe keys, and then scooted the paper back to Gilbert. The clock on the wall seemed to thud rather than tick, and Alice tsk-ed to herself.  


Gilbert shook his head, still flaunting that horrible grin, still somehow alive with light and energy despite the time, despite the bleak room, despite the fact that they’d probably be walking out to dusk and snow. He presented the paper back to Roderich with a little flourish of his hand. “Now you’ve got to sing it, so I can hear the notes.”  


“That’s absurd.”  


Gilbert was putting on a show, clearly just overreacting for comedy’s sake. Surely. He swept his hands around, raised his voice in an accusation, like he was overwhelmed by emotion. Maybe he was trying to make Roderich laugh, but that certainly wasn’t about to happen. Roderich chewed the inside of his cheek and waited for him to finish up. 

“What’s absurd is a piano without sound! What’s absurd is a room without windows – right, Alice?”  


“Ms. Kirkland.” Here, Roderich dared a glance at their warden. She hadn’t even peeked up, and was stretching a piece of taffy out between her fingers in cheerful, gooey ribbons.  


“What’s absurd is thinking I can play the song without knowing how it’s going to sound. Ridiculous. You’ve got to sing.”  


“Surely you know ‘Hot-Cross Buns.’”  


“C’mon, Roddy. You have such a pretty voice.” Roddy was a horrible nickname; Gilbert and Lizzie had used it for him off and on since childhood, but it was still horrible. At first Roderich had tried to wean his girlfriend off it and onto something a bit classier, like, you know, his actual name. He’d been met with little luck. Now, he just glowered and sang, like a funeral dirge:  


“Hot-cross buns, hot-cross buns. One a penny, two a penny, hot-cross buns.”  


“Ha, 'buns.'" Really, it had only been a matter of time before Gilbert snickered over the song's name. Good Lord.  


"Now you," Roderich said.  


"That’s all?”  


“What were you expecting? Now play that a million times. I think I’m going to sleep.”  


“You should teach me something else, too. Something actually challenging – don’t think I didn’t get the comment about this being a song for babies. You’re an asshole, Roddy.” For someone accusing him of being an asshole, Gilbert sounded remarkably tickled. He reached over and ruffled Roderich’s hair, and for a moment he thought he was going to smooth down the wild strands that just didn’t like to sit still. He hesitated just that moment, and then swatted Gilbert’s hand away. The damage had already been done. Surely he was blushing a deep, flattering red, and was his English teacher really laughing at him?  
He decided to call up a fancy-shmancy French place when he got home; he’d steel himself (he hated talking on the phone) and speak smoothly, carefully, like the kind of person who knew what he was up to. He’d book a table for after his detention. Just thinking that line felt kind of corny and unfamiliar, like wearing someone else’s embarrassing old ratty t-shirt.  


For a while he didn’t really sleep; he listened to Gilbert chat with Alice and then babble on to himself when she lost interest and stopped answering. Gilbert was like a child, he decided, just so stupidly fond of things, of himself, of this little life he led. Alice asked where he’d want to go to college, and Gilbert answered “Prussia.” Of course, Prussia was no longer a country, and Roderich secretly seethed when Alice just said, “Hm.” He asked Alice’s hobbies and she told him about making doilies like spider webs and forcing her husband to take a ballroom dancing class with her. Gilbert told her about raising tiny yellow birds that left seeds and poop smears all over his patio but sang like god’s little feathery choir. When Roderich finally drifted off, it was to the image of Gilbert covered in cooing yellow birdlings, teensy bundles of yellow fluff that hardly looked real. Cartoon birdies. The weird kid with the crazy grin was covered in cartoon birdies.  
Roderich dreamt of many things. Among them: the sea, Lizzie slowly turning into a glass doll and his whole family being lost in a maze of orange trees. There was musical accompaniment, as always, and it was a teetering sort of song. It felt like a tightrope walker, or perhaps that one foolish tourist creeping too close to the edge of the cliff. He woke to Alice tapping him on the head with her book.  


“Time to get going, while we’ve still got a little sun.”  


“Wh-”  


“Get up.” Roderich kneaded chapped, worn-red knuckles into his eyes until the glaze of sleep cleared. His teacher was standing in front of him with a hand on her hip. She was wearing her hair in a long fishtail braid that day, he noticed, with a big pink ribbon at the tip. Gilbert was gone, the piece of piano-paper with him. Everything felt very still.  


“Ms. Kirkland. Sorry.” Roderich bundled up his things and tied his scarf carefully, deftly. He’d had enough practice. They left the room together; there were still a few stragglers around the school, but everything was winding down, petering out. Soon, the lights would click off and someone, some unknown hero, would lock the doors. Roderich felt enormous, walking beside Alice. She barely came up to his shoulder.  


“Just so you know, Delinquent Number Two sang that horrible song for at least twenty minutes after we knew you were asleep,” Alice said.  


“Did he really?”  


“I dunno.” The cold hit them like a tangible thing, like they’d just strolled into a glass door. Alice had a little fur coat on, and she clutched it to her like a teddy bear. She said, “Is your car out here?”  


“I’m walking today.”  


“Your scarf’s sticking out funny.”  


Roderich smoothed down the scarf, craning his neck just a bit to catch his reflection in the glossy black glass school door. He looked gangly, sort of hunched into the wind. This wasn’t the person he’d wanted to be. This wasn’t right, somehow. He knew exactly where things had gone wrong, but there wasn’t much to do about it, now. Before he could help it, the words were trickling out of his mouth like he had become a leaky faucet. He shrugged. He offered his hands, palms up, and they stung in the cold. He caught a few snowflakes. “I’m sorry if I said anything – ah – weird, in there… I’m not, like, trying to cover anything up. You know.”  
It was stupid. A rookie mistake. It was just that seeing himself there – this strange, skinny boy teachers couldn’t trust, this heartsick romantic clinging to the girl of his dreams, this child who had paid in advance for piano lessons he couldn’t attend… This wasn’t him. If he could explain these feelings to Alice, if she could believe him, everything would be so simple.  


“Do I?” Alice said. She clearly wanted to leave. There was a car with its lights blazing through the frost-stained air. That was probably her ride.  


“I’m sorry, that came out wrong.”  


“It certainly did. Goodnight.”  


“Goodnight, Ms. Kirkland.”  


She left, and Roderich went home. He called up the French restaurant and made a reservation for eight –a respectable, adult time to take a lady out to eat. Then he checked the home phone’s messages, because his cell phone was uncharged and festering in the bottom drawer of his desk. He wasn’t the kind of guy who liked being able to tote a phone around with him, forever reachable, never alone. There were three messages.  


One was from his mother’s hair salon; she had an appointment. Another was from his father, who would be late again, and the last one was from Lizzie.  


She had said, “Hi, Roddy? Roderich, or Roderich’s parents,” and she laughed. He grinned into the receiver. “Just calling to let you know we may have to cancel our dinner plans. Call me, or come see me… I don’t care. This is important.” Roderich waited for her to say, “I love you,” or maybe make kissy noises into the phone like she did just a few months back, jokey and saccharine and warm. Nothing came. He hung up the phone and leaned back against the counter; he tapped a little rhythm to himself and studied seashells on the mantle, the cuckoo clock over the sofa, the row of unlit candles on the windowsill. He breathed very deep and very slow. Then, he picked up the phone again and dialed her number.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Roderich is very pensive in this one -- sorry for all the musing about stuff. :)


	3. “Mary had a Little Lamb” – Or, that Girl is Really Something, but She’s Not Yours

The phone buzzed, raspy and impatient in Roderich’s ear. It sounded like it was snapping at him, demanding something incomprehensible. It was slick in his palm; he was sweating, wearing his scarf, coat and boots in the kitchen like an arctic explorer who’d managed to get himself horribly lost. He’d tracked in clumpy snow-footprints. He hadn’t noticed until now. They were, perhaps, the sole imperfection here in his father’s kitchen. The room had pale, gauzy curtains colored like smoke, and all the counters smelled faintly of cleaning fluid.  


Peeking out into the family room, Roderich knew he could see a small table beside the mantle displaying his piano competition trophies, with a velvet board for the pins and something sort of like a jewelry box for the medals, all in smooth, rich wood. There was little to no dust, and his mother must have attacked the family room with air freshener fairly recently. Everything was very still. The cuckoo clock pressed on, relentlessly merry. It had a little yellow bird inside, Roderich knew – it was like Gilbert, too happy when it didn’t make sense to be happy at all. In that moment, Roderich imagined himself tearing it off the wall and pounding it beneath his soggy boot. He winced. They’d had that cuckoo clock around since he was a child.  


Lizzie didn’t answer the phone, and Roderich hung up before he felt obligated to leave a message. He tried the number again, and she picked up on the first ring. She snuffled, like she had been crying. She never cried; she’d broken her ankle in gym class, once, and even then she only turned a brilliant red and grunted, cussed out the girl who had tripped her like nobody’s business.  


“Hello?” Lizzie said, and Roderich felt his heart slither out of his chest and squirm up to nestle in his throat. It waited there, pounding, and he could barely breathe. “Roderich?”  


He hung up. It was the way she said his name. Nervous and shy and sorry, the way you’d say the name of someone you kind of liked but had no interest in seeing. She’d asked him to call, and now her voice was watery. Wavering. He didn’t want to see her like this because of him; he didn’t want her to explain, didn’t want to hear anything certain. She’d been saying a lot of things lately, saying he was distant and then tuning him out. The worst part was, he could tell her everything, give her everything, and he sometimes wondered if he would have been enough. In the beginning, she had always called him her gentleman. He didn’t want to say goodbye.  
Roderich closed his eyes, and decided to make soup and grilled cheese sandwiches, one for him and one for whatever parent happened to walk through first. He wouldn’t have said it outloud, but the sandwich was probably just incentive to stay. Not to talk to him, mind you. Just to eat together.  


It was his mother that came first. They sat together at the long, decked-out dinner table; there were doilies over the tablecloth and long, thin candles pointed like ladies’ fingers that had never been lit. She looked like him, which meant she had a long, aristocratic nose and her eyes got steely all too easily. She had a slight double-chin, though, and long hair that she curled most mornings. She carried a camera in her purse at all times. He wondered if he was going to grow up to be like her, or like his father who wore smocks and painted in the garage, who insisted on cooking strange meals from far away. He loved them both, but what did they have to talk about, anymore, except school and piano lessons? Perhaps they could talk about Lizzie, or the way his parents had eloped in the long-ago when they were both sweet to each other every day. None of those topics would settle well that night.  


They ate cold sandwiches, dipping them in lukewarm soup. Roderich had hung his coat on the back of his chair like they were in a restaurant. His mother told him about work, told him the school had called. He was serving this punishment dutifully, showing up every afternoon.  


“This is a good step,” his mother said. “You can still make us proud, Roderich.”  


Roderich thought of telling her how he was teaching piano to a strange silver-haired boy who smiled like a mad scientist, who laughed so loudly you could hear him across the hallway. He thought of telling her how he knew with every little bit of himself that Gilbert was trouble, and yet still he sometimes couldn’t help but listen to him. Like that day they’d gotten in trouble. He wanted to tell her he wasn’t innocent, he wasn’t, but Gilbert had squeezed his arm and they’d been in the thrice-damned computer lab together and Roderich had felt sick to his stomach, worried and eager and stupid. What had he done? It wasn’t so bad, mother.  


“They’ll see I’m innocent, and this will be the end of the punishment – in and out. Simple,” Roderich said. “It’s a pity it has to be on my record, but presumably they also write notes to explain curious circumstances.”  


“That’s good, Roderich. Try a better word than ‘curious,’ next time. We’re sorry about this! It’s an unfortunate misunderstanding, and we’re ready to move on with our lives. You have so much to look forward to.”  


When the phone rang again – quite a while after Roderich had hung up on Lizzie, left her saying his name over and over into a dead line – Roderich’s mother pushed herself out from the table and strode over, all businesslike and sure of her step.  


“If it’s for me, please don’t call me over,” Roderich said.  


“Of course not. You’re practicing the piano,” his mother answered. She had a very pretty, conspiratorial smile. Roderich cleared away his plate dutifully and walked over to the gleaming instrument, the fancy-shmancy piano his parents had splurged on once it turned out he might have what it took. A shiny piano to match a shiny future. He tried to play, but his hands were shaking. It took a few minutes to ease into the song.  


He could hear his mother in the other room –  


“I’m sorry, my dear, but he’s indisposed at the moment. Mm? Oh, of course I’ll give him a message. Let me fetch a pen.”  


He was playing something from memory, something route, ground into his muscle memory like melting snow into carpet. It took him a moment to realize what it was he was rattling off, what its name was. Then he played slower. Soulfully. His mother was rummaging around in a drawer, though of course she knew exactly where the pens were.  


“Oh, how sweet! The Starbucks? Certainly. Oh, dear. Are you alright? Yes, yes. Goodnight. I’ll tell him.”  


Roderich played louder, faster. He closed his eyes and let himself be pulled into the rush of his fingers, of the sound, of the heartless pounding of the cuckoo clock and of its distant cousin – that plain plastic clock hanging in the detention room – that plodded on and on into the night. His mother called, “Your girlfriend wants you to meet her at the Starbucks a few blocks from your school tomorrow morning, really early. Six-thirty.” She paused a moment, waiting, and then continued, “I’m going to bed.”  


Roderich may have said goodnight.  
*  


The next morning was Halloween; Roderich had forgotten. Starbucks was all decked out, though, and even though it was so early a lot of the baristas were in costume. One was a sort of splotchy-faced kitty with glittery ears on her headband, and another looked like he was trying to be a robot. He’d painted his face silver, anyway. Decorations had been up in the school for a week or so, now, so it had kind of slipped under Roderich’s radar. It was Halloween all of a sudden, and soon the streets would be crowded with little kids dressed as ballerinas and Supermen, toting plastic pumpkins from store to store and swinging their bags of loot against their legs. It was still dusky, now, though – not the friendliest morning to go out in tights and face paint. Trees swayed and bent under the weight of snow; some branches curved like arms, and Roderich imagined them human. The trees were struggling to hold onto all the snow, like students gathering their books off the floor. Everything just kept falling from between their fingers, between splayed twigs. Roderich ordered plain black coffee and then put in enough sugar and creamer to make it almost irrelevant.  


It took Lizzie a long time to arrive. He did his math homework and looked out the window. He imagined they were going to have a fun time. They’d laugh and brush shoulders, hold hands like a proper couple, like they always did. Thinking, “I’m going to meet my girlfriend!” could be a warm thing. He knew what he was dreading. It was that moment when she would be closed off to him, when he’d realize her eyes were cold or else looking far away, drifting off to someone else. That moment when he’d be alone. He could imagine it. He could taste it.  


He poured more sugar in his coffee; it didn’t help.  


Most people were driving that day, but of course Gilbert wouldn’t be. He should be in his bed, whatever that was like – Roderich had never imagined Gilbert’s house before, let alone his bed – or drooling on a school bus window, or already lurking in someone’s classroom like an overeager poltergeist. Yet, here he was, walking past the Starbucks. No, he was strolling right inside, with two actual _friends_ , both in posh private school uniforms, carrying clumsy duffle bags marked “ST. CHRISTOPHER’S FENCING TEAM” on one side and “GET TO THE POINT” on the other. Hardy-har-har. Gilbert didn’t usually stroll around with fellows at school; Roderich didn’t think he’d seen him laughing together so easily with any one friend, let alone two, one on each side. The blonde was unsettlingly handsome, almost pretty, and holding a feathered carnival mask in his free hand. Gilbert’s other friend had a boyish face that didn’t quite match his tall, broad-shouldered physique, and he stood in the doorway for a moment to tap the snow off his shoes. Roderich knew Gilbert had seen him, but his eyes dripped away like water down a windowpane. He didn’t even smile.  


Roderich wondered why he was so bothered.  


“I got this, Frankie,” Gilbert said. His confidence usually seemed out of place, but here, settled in comfortably between a beauty and an obvious athlete, he was almost in control. “I got paid last night.”  


“About time,” the pretty one, _Frankie_ , replied, but he handed over his credit card to the barista all the same. It was a lazy flick of his wrist, and already he was leaning against the counter. It seemed like he’d ironed his pants, which was a strange thought looking at him beside Gilbert, with his jeans the color of hot sauce and perpetual bedhead. The girl behind the counter returned Frankie’s smile carefully. She smoothed her hair behind her ear.  


“They paid me late,” Gilbert said, “But Luddy and my grandpa work, too. We were good! Totally good! We were awesome.”  


“Of course you were,” the other friend said. He fiddled with the golden cross around his neck; a nervous habit, sure. “But even so, it’s not like they should get away with everything…” Roderich sipped his coffee and tried to ignore them. He thought of reviewing his math homework. He thought again of the trees, struggling to hold their poor armfuls of snow and letting it fall regardless, letting it tumble down and splatter on people’s heads.  


He couldn’t help hearing snatches –  


“Will you come tonight?”  


“Of course – after detention.”  


“Antonio’s promised to dance for us.”  


“I did no such thing!”  


They laughed, leaving with their drinks as quickly as they had come. Frankie was wearing his carnival mask, now, and it made him look like he was scheming something mischievous and not-quite wicked. He probably wasn’t allowed to wear it to class.  


These boys must have been well-liked at their high school, Roderich thought. He waited until the last moment to see if Gilbert would wave at him, acknowledge him even a little bit, but he didn’t. He was gone down the road very quickly, and it was snowing again.  


Lizzie was late, but she came. They only had a few minutes or so left before they would have to hurry off to school, but even so. She came, and there was that. She slipped frozen fingers over Roderich’s eyes from behind, and crowed, “Guess who!” Her cheeks were bright and ruddy from the cold. She smiled, and Roderich grinned back. He wanted to demand what she’d meant with all those ominous pre-breakup warnings, why she’d snuffled at him over the phone last night, whether she knew he’d hung up on her and then shirked her calls, hidden behind his piano like a goddamn fool. At the same time, though, he didn’t want her to stop smiling. Not now, not ever.  


“I didn’t get you coffee. I didn’t know when you’d come,” Roderich said. “I should’ve gotten it.”  


“No, no, it’s better I buy my own,” Lizzie said. She was still brisk, still warm. She squeezed his arm. “I have something to ask you.” She ordered iced coffee despite the snow, caramel coffee with a triumphant pile of whipped cream on top. She tossed her head, surveying the Starbucks as if she owned the place, taking in everything, meeting everything with power in her eyes. She was just a young girl with a C in math and a backpack jangling with broken key chains, but you would know she was more than that by just looking at her face.  


Lizzie stayed by the counter until she got her drink, and when she returned she said, “Do you really love me, Roderich?”  


“What? Of course I do.”  


“I don’t mean friend-love, or comfortable-girlfriend love. Are you _passionate_ about me?”  


“I’ve imagined myself married to you.”  


Lizzie scowled as if she had the right. “That’s not the same thing, and you know it.”  


Roderich wasn't sure he did, really. He thought of saying yes, but then he realized he was chewing his lip, staring, and she had furrowed her brow. He wanted her to be proud of him, yes. He wanted to feel natural and easy with her; he never wanted her eyes to slip over him like Gilbert’s had coming into the coffee shop. He wondered how to put that into words quickly, wrap her up in his words so there could be no mistake. “I love you,” he told her, like he’d told her a thousand times. A hundred thousand times. The words sounded almost hollow, now, and he hated that. He hated them.  


“And I love you, too,” Lizzie said, “But I’m not passionate about you. I care what you do, but I don’t care when you hold my hand. I want to be friends, Roderich.” She didn’t look angry. She was almost pleading, it seemed, and her voice got loud and fast.  


“You’re breaking up with me.”  


“In one way. But not in the way I think will really count, for us.”  


“I see.”  


“We’ll talk and hang out and do all the normal things! See? We just won’t kiss and stuff, anymore.”  


Roderich thought. He said, “I like kissing you.”  


Lizzie wrinkled her nose. “You do?”  


“Ah.” Roderich took a moment to search himself, looking for anger and hurt the same way one might glance around a room searching out familiar faces. Nope. Now that it had happened, he was kind of empty, almost relieved. He remembered frustration when she interrupted pieces he’d prepared for her, remembered when she didn’t realize how hard it was to write a song, how desperately he’d tried to capture her in music. He thought of the time she’d teased him about having a crush on a boy in their class, and he’d been affronted like, _How could you ever think I’d betray you like that?_ Perhaps it wouldn’t have seemed like a betrayal, to her. Perhaps she would have even “shipped” them together, like she constructed pairings out of the characters in shows she watched. Roderich found himself smiling. She took his hand and squeezed it, but then set it down on the table. “You sounded like you were crying last night,” Roderich said.  


“So you did pick up the phone,” Lizzie answered. It wasn’t a proper reply, but he knew she wouldn’t provide more.  


She drank her coffee walking to school, drank it even though she was shivering. They were going to be late, certainly, but by the time they got there Roderich had told her about the trees.  


“I feel like they’re just… Clutching. Like they can’t hold everything, but they have to.”  


“And if you were winning all the piano lesson gold stars you’d be saying they were overflowing with snow, like spilling glasses or happiness or something. Not everything has to be symbolic or important to your life, Roddy. Sometimes trees are just trees.”  


“What do you think they look like, then?” Roderich was kicking up a little snow as he walked; it flecked his pants with little splatters of white.  


“You mean, besides trees? I think they’re pretty, but I like it better when they have leaves.”  


“I’m not sure I do.”  


“Whatever, Roddy. You know what?”  


Roderich sighed. How many times had he heard “Whatever, Roddy,” even just in the last week? It had been enough, anyway. “What?”  


“Now that we’re BFFs, you can tell me what you did to get detention. It can’t be worse than some of the gossip I’ve heard.”  


“Wait. Wait a second. What gossip?”  


Lizzie grinned, impish and quick over her shoulder, striding away. “We’re late. So late,” she said, and went off down her hallway. His ex-girlfriend. It didn’t feel real, or maybe it had been real long ago, too long ago to properly understand.  


Roderich wondered why he hadn’t asked if she could still come to dinner with him. A table for two with soft candlelight would be set up, dusted off and prepared with fine china before he got out of detention, before he could call the restaurant to bail. Ah, well. Some other couple would sit there tonight.  
He went through his classes like it was any other day; he kept expecting to break down, to have to excuse himself to the bathroom. He doodled her name in his notebook, hoping he might feel forlorn, somehow. Instead he just ended up drawing the spires of a castle and then flipping the page so none of his classmates could see.  
That isn’t to say Roderich didn’t think of Lizzie, because he ate lunch with her group of friends, as usual. Honestly, he wouldn’t have known where else to sit. Her buddies tossed him knowing looks; he wished he could swat their eyes away. He wondered if Lizzie had told them _why_ she didn’t like his kisses. Maybe she’d tell him, eventually.  


He watched the back of Ludwig’s head during math class; Gilbert's brother was the only sophomore in a room stuffed with seniors, but his ears still burned red every time he got a question wrong. He hunched over his desk and mumbled to himself as he scribbled notes. Roderich had assumed he was something of a math prodigy, but maybe he just worked extra hard, huffing his way up the hill faster than everybody else because he’d taken the time to train. He had sharp cheekbones just like Gilbert’s, Roderich noticed, now, and they often wore a similar confused look just before they burst out laughing. It would be embarrassing to think about later, but he considered asking Ludwig if his brother hated him, questioning why he didn’t introduce him to his friends. Why he wouldn’t have acknowledged him at all. It shouldn’t have mattered, but Roderich still found himself drawing out make-believe sheet music in his notebook. He wrote out the keys for “Mary had a Little Lamb” because it was a slightly more complicated song. The treble clef was shaded prettily and everything.  


In the end, he crumpled up the leaf-paper music sheet and stuffed it into his backpack, cringing back, imagining how Gilbert would gloat if he actually came prepared for their “music lessons.” Hell, no. He wasn’t prepared for that humiliation.  


He also wasn’t prepared for Alice to have plopped herself down behind her desk in what was essentially a ball gown, her narrow, bird-bone shoulders draped in fluttery swatches of plum, her ankles crossed delicately and sticking out of piles and piles of rhinestone-studded black fabric. She was wearing what looked like ballet shoes with ribbons wound up her legs, and her hair was piled on top of her head, pinned with little stars and one bobbing peacock feather. She smiled wryly as Roderich stumbled into the detention room and said, “You forgot your costume.”  


“Gilbert’s not wearing one either,” Roderich said, but lo and behold a battered crown was balanced precariously on that asshole’s head. Gilbert smirked and twiddled his fingers at Roderich in a goofy little hello.  


“I’m a king,” he said – needlessly, in Roderich’s humble opinion. “Can you guess which one?”  


Roderich thought fast. He could chat, guess the obvious – King Frederick the Great, of course – or he could just sit in silence and wait for Gilbert to chase him down. Ferret words out of him. Wait to see if they were really anything like friends.  


Wait, actually. Of course they weren’t friends. That was ridiculous.  


Roderich sat down with his lips squished firmly together. He made a point of arranging his backpack and coat as slowly as possible, keeping his eyes downcast. Alice guessed, “Old King Cole?” and Gilbert started ranting again, something about an execution and forbidden lover, this time. Self-entitled asshole. Of course everyone had to listen to _him._  


“Oh my God, shut up,” Alice said. “Do you have any idea who _I_ am?”  


“The ballet version of the Wicked Witch of the West?”  


“Close!”  


“That Bell-something lady from Harry Potter, the one who totally wants to get it on with Voldemort?”  


“Bellatrix Lestrange, and that’s even closer!” Alice clapped her hands together, merry enough that Roderich thought her peacock feather might fall out of her hair. “I’m Morgan le Fay – kind of. I’m also just the kind of girl that goes on fancy dates. Isn’t _that_ a creative costume?”  


“Al doesn’t take you on dates?” Gilbert didn’t seem to realize that calling his teacher’s husband by his first name might be a little awkward, possibly even stalker-ish. He was leaning back in his chair, fiddling with a wad of Play-Doh, shaping it into a long snake and then coiling that snake into a pot, mashing the pot between his fingers. Up close, Roderich saw that his crown had clearly been cut out of cardboard, painted gold and then taped hastily together. Roderich thought he saw a few staples sticking out.  


“Oh, does he ever,” Alice said, voice flat. “Tonight we’re going to watch _The Fly_ – which is the scariest movie he can watch without blubbering like a big baby – and go to Texas Roadhouse. On the most romantic, possibility-filled night of the year, it’s Texas Roadhouse. But he’s going to have to take me dressed like this,” here Alice giggled like she thought herself terribly funny, “And hopefully if I tell enough people about my costume it will send the message home. See, he’s a _dear_ man, but you sometimes have to beat him over the head with a thing before he admits he knows what you’re talking about. You know how that is?”  


“I definitely know how _that_ is.” Gilbert’s voice said, _Preach, sister._ Roderich could almost imagine them painting each other’s nails. They didn’t seem to miss him at all.  


They talked for a while. Roderich read a small chunk of his English assignment and began fiddling with his biology book, psyching himself up to delve into the magical world of mitosis.  


Then Alice said, “Now what are your plans for tonight, then? Are you going to throw any crazy parties in my name?” and Roderich’s ears pricked up again.  


“Actually, I’m going catch the end of a fencing tournament with some friends from my old school. We are going to kick all of the asses and bring home at least three new trophies – victory is inevitable when you’re as good as we are!”  


“Do you practice these speeches in your head before you say them?”  


“Oh, all the time.”  


“Your friends,” Roderich butt in. He hated his nagging voice. He regretted every word the instant it crossed his lips. “They wouldn’t be from St. Christopher’s, would they?”  


For a moment, Gilbert looked taken aback – he ran a hand through his hair and shook his head, staring at Roderich like he’d just sprouted tentacles from his ears or something. His eyes were very sharp, and the smile came slowly. It was soft for a second, just a second, before it stretched into more of a sneer. “Aw, you sneaky little _creeper!_ ” he crowed. “You were listening! Frankie thought you might’ve been.”  


“Frankie knew who I was?”  


“Of course. From my blog. But that isn’t important – you felt left out, didn’t you?” My, he’d jumped on that idea easily, like a hunting dog chasing down its prey, honing in on its scent from the get-go. He shouldn’t be allowed to read Roderich’s moods, not while Roderich had such a hard time reading him. Or anyone else, for that matter.  


“You mention me on your blog?” Out of nowhere, Gilbert’s hand was on the back of his chair, his insufferable grin right in his face. If this is what attention meant, maybe it was better to be ignored. Of course, it was easy to think that now, when things were as they should be. If Roderich thought about it, he knew he would’ve assumed that Gilbert would crowd him in Starbucks. He’d get up in his face, showing off and making any other early-morning patrons shift uncomfortably in their seats. Gilbert needed an audience. Roderich had assumed he'd always be the same, always be like he was here at school.  


“God, Roddy. Were you sad I didn’t say hi? Let’s be fair – you didn’t say hi to me, either. I can’t be the one to say hi first all the time.”  


“Of course I wasn’t sad. I wasn’t _creeping._ You were so loud the whole store probably heard you.”  


“True, true. Aw. You’re adorable. Creepy, but adorable. I kept wondering if you were going to say something.”  


“Stop. Just, stop.”  


“Kids these days,” Alice remarked. She had taken out her phone again; it looked like she was texting, but then she might’ve just been going so fast it had devolved into mashing random letters. “You two are so weird.”  


“Did you choose a harder song for me to learn, today? How about I just pull out the piano, then.”  


Roderich knew he was going to regret this. He knew he was likely to grind his teeth that night, peering at the moon through his blinds, imagining himself that sniveling kid again. The kid that wondered why Gilbert and Lizzie thought he was boring to play war with. They’d been in class together all through elementary school, after all, so he’d been left out of many different games. Gilbert disappeared for middle school, and then popped back into his life a year or so back, like nothing had changed. He’d been a constant, hadn’t he? So many constants weren’t so steady, it seemed. So many pests could flit off and become interesting; so many trusted girlfriends could really be wishing you kissed with less awkward tongue, wishing you didn’t kiss at all.  


Roderich reached into his backpack and pulled out his crumpled almost-sheet music. He smoothed it on his desk for just a moment, knowing he would have to point out each note on the fraying paper keyboard, knowing he would get fed up and smack Gilbert’s arm a few times. He said, “It’s ‘Mary had a Little Lamb’ today. _You_ have to sing it this time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Frankie is Francis. Gasp, gasp.
> 
> Non-Hetalia stuff mentioned in this chapter -- Harry Potter, The Wizard of Oz, and... too many mentions of Starbucks, probably. Also, I think Alice and Alfred are gonna watch the David Cronenberg version of The Fly, if anybody's interested. Not the other one.
> 
> If you've stuck with me this far, thanks for reading! <3 Happy late Halloween.


	4. “Three Blind Mice” – Or, You’ve been Told Things Change

It was amazing the idea had been so long coming, but by that point Roderich had Gilbert playing on his paper keyboard and singing along with the way notes ought to sound. Quite possibly he was tone deaf. The end result sounded something like “Duh-duh-DAH-duh, etc, etc, etc,” with Roderich interjecting such helpful comments as, “No, no, G is supposed to sound like this –” and “Quite possibly you’re tone deaf.” 

He was allowed to speak his mind. 

Gilbert was clearly putting on a show for him, twirling his wrists and tossing his head before beginning yet another rendition of “Mary had a Little Lamb.” His singing voice was horrid. He never quite managed to stop slouching his shoulders, too, and he was still wearing that precarious cardboard crown. Roderich kept expecting him to call it quits and vow to leave him in peace forever, but somehow that never happened. 

The clock thudded on. Alice had put her headphones in a long while back, and her music was loud enough that Roderich could catch a faint buzzing whenever Gilbert quieted down a bit. This must be what “peaceful” was like for them, all bundled together out of the snow and going along with inane ideas while waiting for the clock to strike “Freedom.” Roderich wasn’t really sure how he was feeling so calm. If you’d told him a week ago that things would be almost peaceful in this old cell he’d have arched elegant eyebrows at you and gone, _“Hah.”_

That was also about when Gilbert’s two friends from fancy private school poked their faces through the little window on the door. One of them started knocking, and when there was no response (Roderich didn’t really want to be the one to say, “Ms. Kirkland, may we pretty please have playmates in detention?”) one of them started going, “Hey! Hey, Gilbert!” He was mimicking that fairy’s voice, the one from The Legend of Zelda games. Roderich couldn’t remember her name. 

What part of “locked detention room door” was tough to understand? 

Of course Gilbert perked up at the sight of them. He let out a sort of ominous chuckle and flashed over to the door – really, the guy moved like quicksilver when he wanted to – and let his friends in. Then they were talking a mile a minute, suddenly, just gushing words back and forth at each other. The gist of the conversation was probably something like – 

“Goddammit, guys, what are you doing here? You’re supposed to be winning the championship!” 

“Francis was out of the running pretty early –” 

“Excuse you, I lasted until the semi-finals!” 

“Wasn’t it the match to get into the semi-finals?” 

“Never mind that, why are you here? How’d you do, Antonio?” 

“I’m in the finals.” 

“Holy shit.” 

“He’s been gloating the whole way here.” 

“My training worked, didn’t it?” 

“Sure it did, Gilbert.” 

“The match starts in an hour, so we’re here to get you.” 

“What if you miss it?” 

And so on and so forth, until Alice took a deep warning breath and popped her headphones out of her ears. She never stopped being petite and frail, like a freckled little fairy-maid or what have you, but all of a sudden she looked like a frightening freckled little fairy-maid, sort of sharp and cold and furious. She was frightening even with a peacock feather bobbing precariously in her hair and a ball gown spilling out over her wheelie chair – she could probably have been at least a little scary wearing onesie pajamas and doing the Macarena. She didn’t even stand up. She hardly raised her voice. “Who do we have _here?”_ she said. “I wonder if I approved this, somehow. Could I have _forgotten?”_

Gilbert cleared his throat, but took a step back. His crazed grin had yet to completely drain from his face; Roderich guessed he’d almost forgotten he was being punished. Perhaps the whole affair – irate teachers and distressed principals, parental shame, the like – perhaps this whole concept of _being punished_ never really registered for him at all. Maybe it would never register, and he’d go through life hurtling from one bad idea to the next. Maybe. Antonio shrugged helplessly and murmured, “Sorry,” a couple times. 

It was Frankie that finally took control; he smiled, and there were dimples in his cheeks – the effortless, kissable kind. Roderich immediately wished he could vomit such a ridiculous thought out of his brain and flush it down the toilet, but there you are, that was Frankie. His dimples were kissable and he had diamond stud earrings. He looked at ease, lounging against the doorframe. He’d probably talked his friends out of a ton of precarious situations. “We didn’t realize we were breaking the rules, ma’am – is Gilbert not allowed to have guests?” 

Alice gave him a blank, expectant look, and said, “Names?” 

“Francis Bonnefoy – ma’am, Gilbert is the captain of our fencing team, and we were just – simply _exuberant,_ overcome with emotion. Our Antonio has a shot at victory this year.” 

Alice sniffed. “Nice to see your friends have a flair for the theatrical too, Gilbert.” 

Gilbert was warming back up; he was like a statue thawing, volume suddenly cranking way back up to Maximum. “Isn’t it though?” he said, like he didn’t have a care in the world. His crown was full of staples, but he wore it like it was a masterpiece. It’s likely an elementary schooler could have made the same sort of getup, Roderich thought, possibly ending up with less glue on her hands to boot. 

“I’m Antonio Carriedo,” the boy that was actually good at fencing said. “Detention is almost over, isn’t it? If we could just take –” 

Francis cut in. “Of course, we are more than willing to wait as long as we need to – please, may we sit down? You’ll hardly notice us.” 

“What fresh hell is this?” Alice muttered, but then she waved her hand, dismissing everyone and everything in the room. She had grey and purple stripes on her fingernails. “Fine. Sit.” 

Gilbert and Antonio sat down again – they were back to talking and it was getting kind of hard to follow the winding paths of their conversation – but Francis (Frankie) lingered up by Alice’s desk for just a moment. He licked his lips, almost nervous, perhaps, and watched her wiggle tiny toes inside her ballet slippers. “That’s a lovely dress,” he said. 

Roderich wondered if everyone normally used words like “lovely” at St. Christopher’s. Maybe he should see about transferring after all, despite what seemed like a ridiculous expense. 

Alice tapped her chin. Her eyes were wide as little hazel moons. She remarked, as though commenting sweetly on the state of the roads, “My husband could bench press you.” 

Francis sat down next to Antonio, smoothing his hair as if trying to re-gather himself. He was like a little ruffled bird sulking to himself after getting swatted at by a cat. Alice had her headphones back in, and she’d closed her eyes – her eyelids were splattered with tiny sequins, today. What quality supervision she provided, Roderich thought. He took the sheet of piano-paper off Gilbert’s desk and slipped it into his notebook, between pages and pages of dry, inconsequential note taking. Part of him wondered how long it would take Gilbert to notice the sheet was gone, ask him about it, come looking for his piano lessons again – another part of him was almost fascinated by the way this trio seemed to draw together as if pulled by some magnetic force. When they were all together and playing off one another like this, it was almost hard to imagine what they’d be like alone, without the whole cohesive set. 

Perhaps it was nice to have friends like that. The closest thing Roderich had ever managed was Lizzie, and he’d still never told her when he hadn’t liked the birthday gift she’d gotten him, or when he wanted to go to sleep instead of watching yet another episode of _LOST._ They knew each other well, but it’s possible they were incapable of knowing each other like this. It was for the best. Roderich told himself about inevitability a few times before putting his notebook away. 

“How can you be captain of the fencing team when you don’t go to their school?” Roderich asked. Things were quiet for a moment after he’d blurted it out – he sort of liked the feeling of everyone’s eyes on him, calculating what he meant to their little Moment of Friendship, figuring out what sort of creature he was. “Is he even the official captain?” 

Antonio and Francis spoke at the same time. 

Antonio clapped Gilbert on the shoulder and grinned, saying, “He used to go to school with us, and he’s so good we couldn’t let him go!” 

Francis propped his chin up on a smooth, smooth hand – he probably used whole bottles of lotion up in weeks – and said, “Gilbert told me your girlfriend broke up with you. Is that true?” 

“How did he –” Roderich began. Gilbert was making the slit-throat, “Stop, now!” gesture over and over, miming a lot of imaginary deaths that went completely ignored. Probably Lizzie had told him. She still had all his contact info in her phone; Roderich had seen her texting him, snickering down at the screen. For all he knew, Gilbert and Lizzie had been discussing polite ways to shake him off, to get rid of him. 

Perhaps that wasn’t fair to Lizzie. She still wanted to be friends, after all, wanted that connection. Things had felt warm and safe with her, still, which was really the best sort of breakup Roderich could have asked for. Right? 

Antonio’s mind was still clearly hanging out back at the fencing tournament. He mused, “I suppose Gil’s not really captain in an official sense… Like, there’s another captain, and he’s a teacher…” 

Gilbert went “Shh!” again, but no one was listening. 

“If it’s true about your long-term romance being cut short, would you like to come out with us tomorrow night? You look like a wreck.” Francis’s eyes were velvety and soft, somehow a dark enough blue that they seemed almost violet. You could fall into them, or teeter on the edge, unsure whether or not he could be trusted. Roderich didn’t like them. 

“No,” he said, and then remembering it was a friendly invitation, remembering that it could have been meant well, “No, thank you.” 

“That’s just his way of saying yes, he’d love to come,” Gilbert mumbled. He was looking around his desk for something, peeking under his chair, rifling through a few of his folders. Roderich thought of the piano-paper in his notebook and congratulated himself. He didn’t want to dwell too long on why he might have hidden it – was it for attention’s sake? Was it to keep it away from Francis and Antonio? What was so damn special about a crinkled, smudged page of loose-leaf? Perhaps if he just kept it in his notebook the lessons would be over. Could that be best, in the end? Could that be what he wanted? 

“Oh really?” Compared to Gilbert’s rapid-fire intensity, Francis was languid, drawling. They complimented each other, sure, but it was sort of impressive how both their styles could end up sounding so horribly patronizing. Antonio had taken out Gilbert’s phone and was scrolling through texts or something – he chuckled to himself over a joke Roderich would never know. 

“He’s lying,” Roderich said. 

Francis and Gilbert exchanged self-satisfied little smiles, kind of like busting out their secret handshake in the middle of a conversation. “Aw, how harsh,” Frankie said. 

“He’ll come,” Gilbert assured him, and Roderich glowered down at his hands, cheeks aflame. Of all the insufferable bastards. 

“I won’t,” he warned them. “I absolutely won’t.” 

By that point there were only a couple minutes left in detention, and those fluttered by fast enough. The trio stood and whooshed out of the room faster than Roderich could slip on his coat and scarf. Soon enough he was standing there alone with Alice, who blinked herself awake and yawned a few times, gazing around with a bemused little smile on her face. 

“Hello again,” she said. 

“Goodbye, Ms. Kirkland,” Roderich answered. He hefted up his backpack and tossed it over his shoulder. He felt around in his coat pocket to make sure he still had his house key and scuffed his feet on the carpet on his way out. 

By the time Roderich got to the door, though, it was busted open by a huge blond man dressed as Han Solo – a kind of beefy Han Solo with glasses and teeth so white and straight they might’ve been cut out of a magazine and pasted on his face. He was cute in the way some aging jocks can be cute without becoming handsome; he had probably been seen as really cool in his college frat. Roderich just had a second to take him in before he was sidling up to Alice and going, “So three people recognized me on the way into school! This is a helluva lot better than that time I went as the Terminator.” 

“I never thought I’d hear you say that,” Alice said, and he kissed her right on the mouth, so loudly there was an audible “mwah.” 

Al had an easy way of talking, without ever giving the impression of letting down his guard. His facial expressions changed too quickly for Roderich’s comfort. “So I was thinking we could go to that strip mall and get ice cream before heading down to the restaurant – scope out all the Christmas decorations –” 

“Christmas? On Halloween? Sacrilege.” 

“ – maybe buy some useless crap for stocking stuffers. Sound good?” 

“Ice cream? Alfred, it’s freezing.” 

“And you’ve got like ten skinned rabbits to wrap yourself up in.” 

Alice tugged on a tricksy little smile and lifted his arm; she dragged him to her. Alfred chuckled a bit, stumbling forward. Roderich realized they must not have been that much older than himself, than Lizzie, than Gilbert. Alice bent her husband’s hand so it would cup around her cheek. “Why else would I have run so far chasing that dear old White Rabbit? His fur was so very soft and –” 

Roderich hurried into the dimming hallway; Alice’s giggle was shrill behind him, and he could just imagine how sweet her tiny hand must look bundled up in Alfred’s. It was a horrible joke – and she accused Gilbert of being theatrical. He marched himself out to the street, where cars were creeping along with their brights on, cautious, as if they were tiptoeing around. Snowflakes tumbled around Roderich’s ears like birds spiraling out of control, flapping useless wings before they fell – splat – on the pavement. His feet crunched on the frosty sidewalk at first, and by the time he made it home they were sinking into a few inches of soggy white. His parents had left him a note on the counter saying they were off to some old friend’s Halloween party. They’d probably be driven home around midnight, both tipsy and laughing together, kissing on the stairs. Roderich went to bed early. 

* 

The next day’s classes weren’t terribly interesting. It didn’t snow; there was only a thin veil of grey-white clouds over the sun’s face. Roderich woke early and burned some eggs for breakfast. His father drove him to school on the way to work. He doodled a few lines of make-believe, potential music on the edge of his notes – he’d try playing it when he got home, see if it was any good. Actually, he realized, he would probably forget to play it. Pity. 

Perhaps he could be a composer, scribbling out songs without any credentials to his name, without qualms about acceptability, labels or the judgment of those above and beyond him. The idea felt unstable and liberating, but he didn’t chew on it for long. He just imagined himself hunched over an old-fashioned desk with light from the window glazing him over in gold, glasses sliding down his nose. He imagined himself writing furiously in what could have been another life, dressed in a posh jacket and cravat with leather boots tied up his legs. _It could have been._

The cafeteria served pizza for lunch. Roderich ate in near silence. 

Ludwig watched him during math class; the guy had a really scary face, whether he knew it or not. His eyebrows were dark compared to his pale hair. By the end of the lesson it seemed like he had something to say. He was scooting forward in his chair as though preparing to dart after Roderich if he tried to hurry away. Muscles in his jaw twitched every so often; he was probably chewing up his cheeks, his tongue. In the end, one of Ludwig’s friends bent over by his desk and started chatting; he seemed to freeze and then loosen, pointedly shoving the threat vibes off his face. Roderich didn’t even say hello. It was alright, in the end. He didn’t really want anyone to ask him questions. It would be better if he could just walk around in silence, his mind sort of blurred over like the sunshine outside. Perhaps that was melodramatic, too, like Alice, like Gilbert. Perhaps Lizzie was right and it was just a cloudy day. He must have just been sulking, after all. 

The detention room was the same as ever; it smelled of lunches left behind long ago, sandwiches abandoned accidentally to rot, pencil shavings and Alice’s perfume. Roderich arrived a few minutes late, and everything was eerily silent. Alice and Gilbert were hunched over their respective desks, scratching away with red-ink pens. 

“Hey, Roddy –” Gilbert started, but Alice shooshed him. Roderich noticed that Gilbert’s shirt was inside out – the band logo was a little more faded than one would expect, even for him – but decided not to say anything. Perhaps it was almost endearing to imagine him stumbling out the door in a rush, shirt inside out and hair a mess, chanting at Ludwig to go, go, go. 

Roderich wondered what Gilbert’s house looked like, what sort of door he’d slammed shut that morning. Apparently he lived with his grandfather – who was he? Did he wake him up when it was time to prepare for school and the like? Roderich’s father always rapped on his door to make sure he’d pried himself out of bed at a reasonable time. 

“We’re grading papers today,” Alice said. “I’m rather behind – the principal’s getting a touch impatient.” 

“I tried reasoning with her, Roddy,” Gilbert whined. “I told her it wouldn’t make her look any better to have Delinquents One and Two grading her shit, but she said no one would know the difference if we use her pens.” 

“This school is crap,” said Alice. “Sit down and grab a stack – no talking.” Her hair was loose over her shoulders today; it fell to the small of her back. She had mascara smears around her eyes. 

Oh, well. They worked in silence, going off a few answer key sheets Alice had set up all neat and ready for them. Roderich found one of Ludwig’s assignments in his stack – poor guy got six of the eleven questions correct and skipped maybe two of the points he was supposed to address in the short-answer portion. His handwriting got really sloppy and strained towards the end. Alice was notorious for timing everything, even homework assignments. She was impatient as anything. Roderich once told Lizzie that she was the pirate captain who’d bellow at everyone to scrub the deck harder and harder until their hands were splintered shreds one day and then just lurk in her cabin the next, gloating over necklaces so gaudy even proper queens wouldn’t wear them. 

Of course, he’d had to tell her that when she royally failed her midterm. She’d laughed, but not in a happy way. 

At first Roderich had been planning to teach Gilbert “Three Blind Mice” that day, in honor of his charming friends, but it didn’t seem like that was going to happen. For one, Roderich still had the sheet of piano-paper crushed between his biology notes. He wasn’t going to be the first one to mention it, not on your life. Gilbert was going to have to shrug and admit he’d lost it, or perhaps make another one. Beyond that, when he tried humming “Three Blind Mice” a little bit to put the idea in Gilbert’s head Alice just ended up going “Shut it.” So, nevermind. 

The time actually went by faster when they had a route, concrete job to do. Alice bustled herself out and away with hardly a goodbye, in the end, papers gathered up helter-skelter and upside down in her arms. Roderich was left with Gilbert, whose socks didn’t match today. 

“Please thank Francis for the invitation, but I cannot go out with your friends tonight,” Roderich said. He nodded his head authoritatively. Hopefully Gilbert would nod along with him and then they’d go on their merry way. 

“Why not?” 

“I have to go home and… Call Lizzie.” Gilbert would never buy it if he said he had to go practice the piano. Of course he would play anyway, whatever time he got back. Homework? It was Friday. 

“She broke up with you, didn’t she?” Goddammit. Struggling to unravel expressions was never fun – it was decoding hieroglyphics or playing Pictionary. You could guess a meaning just fine, but there were never any guarantees. What did Gilbert ducking his head mean, then, and what was that weird, twitchy little smile? Was he gloating? Did it please him that Roderich had been dumped? 

“She’s dear to me,” Roderich said. He knew how stiff he sounded, but couldn’t really bring himself to care. 

Maybe Gilbert relaxed. “I think she’s pretty cool, too,” he said. “Sort of weird. Did I ever tell you I thought she was a boy at first?” 

“So did I,” Roderich said. _Goddammit,_ again. Of all the people he could have handed that ammunition to, it had to be Gilbert. He expected him to guffaw or make some sort of bizarre joke, but he just nodded as if he had sort of figured. His eyes flicked to the clock on the wall – someone had scribbled on its face with marker, some word Roderich couldn’t make out. 

“Let’s get out of here,” Gilbert said. He scooped up Roderich’s backpack and slung it over one of his shoulders – he was wearing a bag on each side. He squeezed Roderich’s arm and started to lead him out into the hall. Roderich stumbled just the littlest bit, and he remembered how Alfred’s head had lolled, how he’d laughed when Alice dragged him in quite the same way. Gilbert’s touch was almost too much, too hard, too personal; it was kind of like Lizzie’s, but then it was nothing like hers at all. She would have pushed him. Gilbert just kind of eased him along. Surprisingly smooth, really. 

Roderich shook him off, but of course the hand just ended up right back where Gilbert wanted it. Incorrigible. This time, he let it stay. 

They walked and talked for a little while. It went something like this – 

Roderich, “I met Ms. Kirkland’s husband yesterday.” 

Gilbert, “Was he crazy?” 

Roderich, “No crazier than you.” 

Gilbert, “Oh, good.” 

And then they were out in the hall, strolling past some band kids wheeling around a tuba, its brass skin plastered with fingerprints; past Lizzie’s artsy, aloof friend Sadiq leaning over the water fountain; past flickering images of themselves moving from glassy dark window to glassy dark window, reflected on all the doors. 

Roderich, “They’re much too old to dress up for Halloween, in my opinion.” 

Gilbert, “They’re, like, five, six years older than us, Roddy. Tops.” 

Roderich, “That’s exactly it. _We’re_ too old to dress up for Halloween.” 

Gilbert, “What would you have dressed up as, if you weren’t a lame-ass spoilsport?” 

Roderich, “I’m not sure.” 

Gilbert, “You could do a mean Bruce Banner.” 

Roderich, “Who?” 

Gilbert, “The Incredible Hulk, Roddy. Before he goes green.” 

Roderich, “Well that’s flattering.” 

Gilbert, “What? I saw you freaking out when we got called to the principal’s office.” 

And then they were out in the bitter air; the sky was purple beneath the clouds, grey enough to look sick but not quite dark enough yet to be a bruise. They walked for a little while longer, and Roderich thought he knew where they were when they headed down the sidewalk, when they waited for the little green walking man sign to flash so they could cross the street. Cars whizzed by, splashing gritty sludge that used to be snow, used to be intricate crystals in the air onto their shoes. Roderich half-caught snippets of conversations, and remembered too late that Gilbert’s hand was set snugly on his arm, leading him like they were _together._

When he brushed him off again, Gilbert was talking about how Ludwig obsessed over his math homework even as a kid, getting so caught up in worksheets that he could tune out tickling, the theme songs to his favorite shows, even getting climbed on by their “huge-ass” dogs. This time, Gilbert let his hand fall down to his side; he stretched the fingers and bunched them up in the pocket of his coat. Roderich realized they must be numb, maybe burning. He wasn’t wearing gloves, after all. 

“Let’s go on the swings,” Gilbert said. 

Roderich looked up, shook his head. His eyes stung, bitten by the chill, and he could feel a headache just starting to smolder behind them. He was in the park on the other side of his school, past the car lot, yes, but over by the entrance to the elementary classrooms; the ground was a squishy mess of shredded tire pieces under the snow. The playground equipment wasn’t much, even on friendly days with sunshine and clumsy, swollen clouds bumbling their way across the sky. Every swing squealed and creaked when you pushed even the tiniest bit, and flaking patches of rust were slowly spreading across the jungle gym like diseased skin. The paint was chipping, too, absolutely everywhere, showing off the silver skeleton-structures beneath. 

“Man, I remember when this place was new. Don’t you?” Gilbert’s breath billowed out around in him exuberant clouds; his nose and ears were stained bright red. Roderich imagined himself threading his scarf around Gilbert’s face so only his eyes could peek out. 

Then he said, “No.” 

“It was the shit.” 

“We need to talk about something serious.” Why should it matter if Gilbert was discreetly trying to rub his hand back to life, if his nose had begun running just the tiniest bit? Why should Roderich care? “You haven’t given me the full story about hacking the school’s databases, have you?” 

“We’re technically still on _their_ school grounds, you know. Tsk.” 

“No one’s here. And you haven’t, have you?” 

Gilbert thought; he shuffled his feet and tapped snow off the bottom of his sneakers. Finally he grinned, mischievous and bright, looking like a diabolical Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. “No,” he said. “I haven’t told you everything. And I won’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading, everyone! over 100 views is a new concept for me -- I just recently started posting fanfiction -- so you should know I appreciate it! I hope you're enjoying the story so far. <3 
> 
> I don't really know much at all about fencing. sorry -- I gave it a go, but if I should rephrase anything about competitions and all that jazz don't be shy about correcting me. 
> 
> I mention things like Zelda and the Hulk and stuff in here... also, Gilbert is actually Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. now we all have to imagine Rudolph shouting "I AM AWESOME" at Santa and all those other reindeer. they were prolly like "wtf" or something. 
> 
> the plot thickens. woooooooo~ will they have it out in the next chapter? will Alice REALLY do the macarena in footie pajamas? stay tuned!


	5. “My Bonny Lies over the Ocean” – Or, of Arguments and Watching Teachers Make Out

“It’s like in an action movie or some shit – the less you know, the better off you’ll be,” Gilbert said, and his eyes were far too eager. He reminded Roderich of food with too much seasoning, food that could almost taste wonderful if it just didn’t burn the tongue quite so much. Roderich had nearly been having fun, and now he imagined himself punching Gilbert out. 

It was just a flicker of a thought. Gilbert wouldn’t be expecting it; he’d tumble back onto the tire swing, its crusty metal joints screaming. His smile might flicker a little bit when he first noticed the punch coming at him, when he first realized everything wasn’t fine and dandy anymore. It’d flicker just enough to let Roderich get his bearings. Gilbert was talking as if this were a game, but wasn’t it their future at stake? Didn’t the records kept about them mean anything? If not, then, well, goddamn it, why were they even kept? 

There was no reason Roderich should feel guilty for _imagining_ himself hitting Gilbert, but now he was shrugging, loosening the scarf around his neck as if he’d actually take it off and pass it over to his almost-friend. Here, wear this. Keep out the cold. You’re so thin, and you look so tired. 

Roderich kept his scarf on, but his voice was calmer than he had expected, than he could have hoped. “This isn’t an action movie. We’re in trouble. We – _you_ got caught.” 

“We got caught, yeah. I didn’t think we would.” 

“No,” Roderich stared at the gauzy halo around a streetlight. It was such a dim glow, really, but it would probably still leave an afterimage to burn on the back of his eyelids. “You assured me we wouldn’t, I recall. You swore.” 

It wasn’t likely Gilbert thought back to that afternoon nearly as often as Roderich did – it wasn’t healthy, the way he obsessed. He obsessed over a lot of things, of course. There were nights piled upon nights when he’d been so angry he couldn’t sleep right. He couldn’t keep his brain from churning out new retorts, different accusations. He’d wake up woozy and sick to his stomach; his teeth would ache from being clenched together. His parents would have been involved, or perhaps Lizzie. Of course he wouldn’t say anything later on. Probably he’d just take some Advil. 

This instance in the computer lab was a slightly different circumstance, of course. Complicated, because at the time he hadn’t been angry at all. Sometimes Roderich thought of the way the garish artificial lighting had made Gilbert’s hair look like plastic; he thought of how he’d smiled in a different sort of way, a soft, appraising, hopeful way. Gilbert was nothing if not hopeful. Roderich had trusted him there, though of course he’d been foolish, of course he should have known. Just because someone means well doesn’t mean they’re wise, doesn’t mean they know what they’re saying. He tried not to think of the way he’d felt that day. If anything, feeling protected, or valued, or safe in that moment revealed how willing he’d been to follow Gilbert’s lead, how little he’d protested. 

It was dumb, and in a big way that moment of willingness wasn’t over. It might never be over. It would always be there, taunting him, flaunting a side of Roderich’s self he didn’t much care to think about. Sometimes it felt like there were so many expectations just piling up on his back, so many things to carry, wishes to fulfil, people to be be. It had been nice, for a moment, to let some things slide off into Gilbert’s arms. 

The fact was, though, there was no real guarantee Gilbert meant to be protective of him personally at all. The idea of a lot of changed grades floating around in the system didn’t do that theory any favors. 

“I was trying to help you,” Gilbert said. Roderich had heard it before. That’s essentially what Gilbert had said right before it happened, though of course then it was in the present tense and accompanied by a cordial hand on his back, shaking his shoulder. _If I can fix something, of course I’m going to. It’s just a little thing, like a leg up – you’ve done everything else by yourself. I’ve done this before_ – or had he said “once before?” Roderich tried to remember every now and again, until he couldn’t think about it anymore – _so it’s safe. No one caught me. Of course it’s safe._

Stupid, stupid, asshole, dumbass, rogue, cad, villain. Stupid, stupid. 

There were a lot of things Roderich could have said, but instead he just sort of spat out, “I didn’t need help!” And he hadn’t. Of course he hadn’t – lots of people would graduate unremarkable. Lots of people would have to work their way into the proper classes slowly, following the rules. They’d have to play with the hand dealt to them. If you’d asked Roderich over the summer – just a few months ago, really – he’d have told you that was the only way to do things honorably. It wasn’t that he’d changed his mind, really, just that something like that wouldn’t mean much coming from him anymore. 

“You seemed pretty damn upset to me.” Gilbert had no right to sound offended. 

“I still didn’t need help from you.” Wipe that smile off his impudent face, like scrubbing stains off a window. Roderich could feel himself sneering. 

“Oh my God,” Gilbert said. He raised his hands up, palms out, as if shielding himself from Roderich’s nonsense-waves, or something. As if his happy optimism bubble couldn’t stand disbelief, displeasure. Goddammit all, he was still grinning. Just a little tweak of his lip, almost fond, almost patronizing. “It wasn’t pity, Roddy. It was sympathy. I got where you were coming from.” 

“I didn’t think you felt sorry for me. That wasn’t the problem.” 

“No?” Gilbert had kept saying, _That sucks,_ and _No way_ and _Ugh_ when Roderich described the way he’d arrived late for the music department’s generic auditions that semester, the way he’d missed his shot at the higher level band and choir courses until next year. He’d had to enroll in regular-old third year classes – you know, he would’ve been fine with that, would have swallowed his pride and rolled with the punches. Or something along those lines. Some similar metaphor. 

Of course Roderich could still have tried for the theater department’s internship, where he’d get to play during shows and rehearsals and whatnot, but he wouldn’t have had priority. It was possible, but it felt unlikely as getting into his top college without a few tasty little highlights helping his resume stand out a little bit. It was a feeling. He’d just been talking to Gilbert, that was all, and then he was swept up in a tide of enthusiasm. It happened, and he’d watched, feeling special. 

Gilbert was the worst. _Roderich_ was the worst. Coming from such a backwater, middle-of-nowhere school, he would need every ounce of competitive power he could get. 

Roderich had butchered his chances by wandering around the competition hall, staring blankly down hallways lined with endless doors that all looked the same. He’d been lost in a maze of beige walls and brown doors for what had felt like a sweaty, furious eternity. When he’d found the room, the auditions were half over and he hadn’t had the nerve to talk to anybody there. 

Gilbert said, “I think taking off points for being late is bullshit.” 

“It wasn’t a ‘taking off points’ issue. We submitted a near-perfect audition score for me.” 

“We submitted the scores you got on the practice test in class.” 

“The auditions weren’t really a test,” Roderich said. “They weren’t done through the school. They would’ve been different.” Roderich had used that line just the night before to assure himself he hadn’t lied to Alice, to Ms. Kirkland. They didn’t change his grades if this wasn’t a grade. It had been the score he’d made on the practice test, after all. He wasn’t a liar – he genuinely didn’t know about any of her British Lit scores being tweaked. 

“We set you up to get into the _right_ classes next semester.” Gilbert said. He sounded tired. 

Roderich breathed deep. “I got lost. I got the scores I deserved.” 

“No, you didn’t, Roddy. You can’t find your way out of a paper bag, anyway, can you? Getting lost and chickening out doesn’t say anything about musical talent.” 

“Not so loud,” Roderich said, and then, “I didn’t ‘chicken out.’” 

“Not so loud? Roddy, the teachers already know about this part. Kind of.” Gilbert had a point. Roderich’s test score materializing out of the blue was the reason he was just too darn suspicious to ignore, the reason he’d been stuck down in the detention room while all those fancy big-shots tried to figure out what to do with him. It couldn’t have been a coincidence that those numbers just plopped themselves down right by his name. Roderich hadn’t been able to look his choir teacher in the eyes for a while now. She hadn’t even called on him by name in days. 

But still, there was no solid proof that Roderich himself snuck online and somehow managed to give himself a new score. In fact, he couldn’t even begin to think of how he’d go about doing that, what the steps would be. Computers were like strange, mostly-benevolent monsters that he eyed from a distance. Without Gilbert, he couldn’t have done anything. He wouldn’t have even protested loudly enough for anyone with power to hear him. 

“What I’m trying to say is I still don’t think we did anything wrong. I get what you meant.” 

“You couldn’t possibly.” 

Gilbert looked down at his feet – he was grinding his sneaker into a mound of dirty snow, mashing it down so it would harden into a more compact sheet of cold. “You wanted to look good. You’re always staring at windows and straightening your hair. I’ve seen you straighten your hair in a spoon.” 

“You told me it would look good, it would be safe.” 

“And it would have. I don’t know what went wrong.” 

Roderich tightened his scarf. “You were showing off!” 

“You let me. You’re the one who chose to believe nothing bad could happen.” 

“What was that Ms. Kirkland said about actual changed grades?” Roderich asked. That was what mattered. It was no use trying to mend anything between them, trying to undo the past and rewrite it in a way he could be proud of. Better to just barrel on into the future. “Gilbert, please. Was it you? Could a lot of people be altering data?” 

“It’s nothing you need to know about, Roddy.” 

“Don’t call me that.” 

“You’re so cute when you’re mad.” 

“Bullshit.” 

“Hah!” Gilbert reached out and clapped Roderich’s shoulders. Roderich made a point of holding his gaze, steady, waiting. He wouldn’t jump; he wouldn’t pull away. “See?” Gilbert said. “Fucking adorable.” 

“Ludwig helped you get onto the database the first time, you told me. You didn’t tell me how.” 

“You wouldn’t have understood any of the tech-y terms or anything. You wouldn't have even listened.” This was true. 

Roderich decided to ignore it, anyway. “Or _why._ Was he the one who changed grades?” 

“What? Shit, Roddy. Back off. _Back off._ He didn’t change anything – what I told you before was true. Ludwig and I hacked into the system because we wanted to be in the same world history class.” 

“No one caught you.” 

“Not a one. Alice is right – our school sucks.” Gilbert sounded like he wanted to change the subject, but how could Roderich let him? The wind was beginning to pick up, now, whisking snow into the air and tossing it around so it flew in their faces. Gilbert shivered. Roderich pretended he didn’t see. He thought, again, of giving in, changing the subject –passing over his scarf. But then he’d be left with no answers. He was so close. He could feel it. 

“So you thought you could just tweak data here and there eternally?” He said. “You did more than switch history courses. You chose not to tell me that part.” 

“You didn’t need to know!” 

“I need to know now! _Stop_ covering for your brother – don’t you care what’s going to happen to us?” 

“No.” Gilbert didn’t even hesitate. 

“Goodbye.” Roderich had felt protected and safe – what a joke. 

“Roddy – Roderich – Nothing is going to happen to us. Nothing is going to happen to you.” 

“I’m leaving.” 

Gilbert raised his eyebrows and glanced around, shuffling a bit in his soggy shoes. “ _Can_ you? Do you know where we are?” 

“We’re in the playground by the elementary school.” 

“So which way should you go to get back to the high school?” 

Roderich thought of answering, coaxing Gilbert into telling him which way he should stride into the dying light. He didn’t. He just started marching off somewhere, arms crossed over his chest to gather both scarf and coat in closer to his heart. The bones in his legs were aching a bit, it was that cold. For a minute he listened intently to the wind, to the crunch of snow beneath his feet, to the drone of cars, dulled as if it were coming in from far away. Then Gilbert laughed. It was almost a panicked sound. 

“You’re going to end up at Wal-Mart before you make it back to school, Roddy! Jesus Christ, it’s not that hard.” Gilbert waited, but Roderich didn’t respond; he didn’t even look back. “You can even see the high school from here.” 

Roderich walked on. 

“Hey! Roderich! I’ll get us a ride.” 

“I don’t need a ride.” 

“It’s cold,” Gilbert called. “Your nose is red.” 

That possibility hadn’t occurred to Roderich – he’d been thinking about Gilbert’s shivering, his thin hoodie, his wet socks, and all the while he’d probably looked like Rudolph, himself. A furious, whiny Rudolph. All he could really manage to say was, “So is yours.” 

“Let me get us a ride.” 

Roderich turned back to look Gilbert up and down – his eyes swept over him as slowly, as calmly as he could bear. He had thin cheeks – in a way, he looked manlier than Ms. Kirkland’s Alfred, sleeker. The legs of his jeans were sodden, clinging to his ankles. “Tell me what grades you changed and why. I must be prepared, Gilbert. They _will_ blame me; they’ll be suspicious.” 

“And you’ll plead innocent. And you’ll _be_ innocent.” 

Gilbert called for Francis, who came in a posh car he shouldn’t have been able to afford as a high school student. It seemed Frankie was expecting to mess with Roderich some, but Gilbert just said to drive him right home, drive him home quickly and carefully and don’t get lost. The weekend passed. It’s possible Roderich slept through most of it. 

* 

Eating lunch with Lizzie was fine – it was normal. Even sharing a table with her friends was a given, nothing Roderich would ever think to argue. They bickered a lot and discussed things that whizzed over his head; they kicked each other under the table and sometimes drew scribbly doodles matchmaking characters Roderich had only ever heard of in passing. Things were spilled on the tabletop. Food was snatched out of other people’s lunch bags. It was all okay. Roderich didn’t always enjoy it, but after so many weeks it had begun to feel homey. 

It was kind of the opposite now. Sadiq was sitting with them for the first time, and he had wonderfully shaped arms. That’s what Lizzie was saying – she rubbed his shoulders and he met Roderich’s eye with a bemused little smile, as if to say, _Do you have any idea what’s going on?_ He looked happy; he had a thin coating of stubble on his chin that somehow managed to look sexy rather than just unkempt. He talked fast, gestured a lot with his hands. When he laughed, Lizzie laughed, too. His eyes were rich and amber-brown, pensive without looking morose. Roderich wondered if his hair fell that way naturally or if it would be stiff to the touch. 

They were partners in art class, randomly assigned, Lizzie had said. Sadiq was a funny guy, with an eye for beautiful things. When he thought about it, Roderich realized he knew more about Sadiq than he would have guessed. He had good taste in ties and food. He didn’t watch a lot of TV, but he was far better at puzzles than anyone else Lizzie knew. He understood her favorite sports teams. 

Roderich excused himself. He laughed awkwardly and waved before standing up. He almost leaned in to kiss Lizzie’s forehead before bumping his knee on the underside of the table. It was horrible, but there were plenty of halls and corners to tuck himself away in until lunchtime passed. He probably looked a bit funny walking out of the cafeteria with the clumsy plastic tray still in his hands, but no one stopped him. 

Aside from eating alone, the rest of Roderich’s day passed fairly normally. Normal was good. Normal was safe. Normal was what eating lunch with a warm and cozy table full of people he liked just fine should have felt like. 

They had a visitor in detention. Roderich hadn’t been expecting to see Alfred again so soon, but he was already leaning against Alice’s desk when he walked into the classroom. Al was dressed like a cop – no, he was a cop, with the black-on-more-black getup and shiny badge to boot. His hair was styled to look kind of like Captain America’s, Roderich thought, though he only really knew the character from Lizzie’s ramblings and posters in the movie theater. His nametag said _A. Jones_ on it, which admittedly raised a few questions. 

Of course Gilbert asked them right away, without even bothering to sit down – “Are you really her husband, or are you here to arrest all of us?” 

“Both,” Alfred said. His grin was like American chocolate – maybe a little too big, maybe not rich enough to reach his eyes every single time, but it was sweet. 

“We decided not to take each other’s names ,” Alice said. She was cramming papers into an already-straining canvas bag; she still had her fluffy winter coat on, along with the kind of gold sequined scarf little kids might pick up from Claire’s or something. Her boots were something from a dress-up box, and her hair was flecked with snow. 

Alfred shrugged. “It was before I realized how much ‘Kirkland’ sounds like ‘Kirk-land’ – as in, ‘land of Kirk.’” 

“’Land of Kirk,’” Roderich echoed. 

“James T. Kirk, of course.” Alfred was good at beaming. 

Alice stood, slipping on a pair of sunglasses; she nudged Alfred off her desk and gave his arm an absent little squeeze. “He would’ve taken my name for a _Star Trek_ reference. Isn’t that romantic, boys?” 

“So romantic,” Gilbert said. He nodded a couple times as if to prove he actually got it. 

“Anyway, I’ve got to jet,” Alice straightened her coat and heaved the enormous canvas bag over her shoulder. It looked like she was an ant hobbling away under the weight of a breadcrumb. “Last minute arrangements, prior commitments, yada yada, all that jazz–” 

Alfred snickered. “She has an interview with –” 

“Shhhhhh –! Shut it, you.” The bag made a nice, round thud against the carpet when Alice dropped it down; she dragged Alfred toward her by the belt-straps on his pants. She giggled and he kissed her. It started out as a quick, in-public sort of affair, just a peck on the lips followed by an easy smile and a goodbye, but soon enough Roderich was pretty sure she’d used at least a little tongue. 

He met Gilbert’s eyes almost without meaning to. It was funny how it happened – something seemed to click in that moment. Something hilarious, apparently. All of a sudden they were on the same side, and Roderich’s face was definitely turning red he was trying so hard to hold in bemused bursts of laughter. Alfred’s hand was curved around where Alice’s waist would be, were her coat a little less puffy. He reminded Roderich of a guy at some high school dance, in that moment, still figuring out what to do with his hands and how best to excuse himself to the snack table. 

Soon enough, Roderich would be the adult kids watched, just like this. Maybe he’d kiss his lover in the street, or maybe they’d close the blinds first. 

Eventually, Alice left. She said, “I won’t throw out the microwave before you get home – or will I?” from the doorway. 

Alfred answered, “And I won’t tell your boss that you dumped Delinquents One and Two on a poor, defenseless _stranger._ I definitely won’t do that.” 

“Asshole.” 

“Witch.” Alfred was sitting on the desk again. He tossed her a jaunty little salute. “I love you.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Alice answered. Her boots clop-clopped on the hallway tile all the way to the stairs, and she was gone. 

There was a pause, and Gilbert leaned down to rummage around in his backpack a little. He took out a notebook and turned to a fresh piece of paper. It had to happen eventually, Roderich thought. He braced himself, but in a way it was a keen relief. It’s not like Gilbert would have forgotten their pseudo piano lessons so soon – he was the one who’d been so adamant about them, after all. 

Perhaps it was just that Roderich didn’t like feeling forgotten. 

In the end, though, Gilbert didn’t even get a chance to draw a makeshift piano – if that was really what he’d intended to do, of course. Alfred stood, hands on his hips, and surveyed the both of them. Studying him, Roderich realized the guy looked a lot more tired than his voice let on. He’d just gotten off of a shift at work, himself, likely as not. His hair had probably been freshly styled in the rear-view mirror of his police car, going off to see his wife at the weird school where she teaches. From his perspective, this must have been kind of like taking a babysitting job. 

“So! Detention,” Alfred said, as though putting the pieces together, testing out phrases and potential speeches in his head, swishing them around on his tongue. The boisterous authority in his voice made Roderich think he was probably a fairly high ranking police officer, possibly the sort to give a lot of speeches and ralley the troops, as it were. “Let’s start with some ground rules – this is a punishment, so we’re obviously not gonna talk. Socializing would defy the point. You both probably have homework, right?” 

“Not really,” Gilbert said. 

Alfred continued as though he hadn’t spoken. “Do your very best on it. You have a few hours. You can eat, of course, ‘cause I’m not some kind of heartless tyrant, but try to stay put. If you have to pee or something, just tell me. I’ll get you a bathroom pass.” 

“Whoa. This feels like… Actual detention,” Gilbert said. Roderich couldn’t tell if his voice was more disappointed or impressed. It was a peculiar, almost subdued mixture of the two. 

Alfred blinked. “As opposed to…?” 

Roderich could have explained that Alice’s detention room was sort of a live-and-let-live space, the polar opposite of one of her classrooms – they got candy for coming quietly and leaving her in peace for a few hours. It might have been funny to see how Alfred reacted to Francis and Antonio turning up out of the blue, but Roerich didn’t say a word. He nodded. This was more like what he’d expected when he first came to detention. This made sense. He could hunch over his notebooks and do math homework to the steady pounding of the graffiti-smudged clock on the wall; he could ponder his sins all by himself, without Gilbert’s hand on his back or shoved in his face or – 

Roderich wasn’t sure how much time had passed when Gilbert spoke, but his voice was way too loud. He said, “Is that the new Pokémon game?” 

“Maybe,” Alfred said. He grinned, like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar suddenly realizing he cares more about chocolate chips than scolding. He drew the word “Maybe” out in such a playful way. His DS was bright red and covered in weird stickers. It looked more well-used than Roderich would have expected from a toy belonging to an adult police officer. Or any adult, really. 

“If I give you my friend code will you let me and Roderich talk?” 

Alfred tapped his chin with the little DS wand, scrunching up his lips and going, “Hmm.” Perhaps he looked a little disappointed when he shrugged and said, “No, but you can give me your code anyway.” Gilbert scribbled something on a piece of paper and handed it over; it would’ve looked like gibberish to Roderich, sure. 

Maybe Gilbert proffered his hand for one of those ridiculous “fist-bumps,” and maybe Alfred laughed and said, “Thanks, dude.” Maybe they were at the point in their lives when chipper young police officers could choose to call them “dude” in earnest. Maybe, but Roderich kept his eyes on his math homework. 

Detention felt like it lasted quite a long while – as detention should, really. It occurred to Roderich that maybe it was for the best that he didn’t know exactly what Gilbert had been planning to do with his blank piece of notebook paper. No explanation meant no disappointment. After a while, Roderich caught himself staring down at the jumble of numbers in his notebook, absolutely blank and composing arguments with Lizzie in his head. Something about moving on so quickly she might have been cheating; something about a lack of interest in his arms being no reason to keep him in the dark. Insensitivity, expectations. The works. 

When detention was over, Alfred folded his DS up and slipped it into the pocket of his fancy police pants. Roderich couldn’t help but wonder if he carried it around at work sometimes – how many police officers might have game systems or books or other personal memorabilia nestled back in their cars? Al stood and said, “That’s all, guys. G’night.” 

He left pretty quickly, striding out with a purpose, loosening the tie around his neck just a little bit. Perhaps he was hungry, darting back home to that microwave Alice had jokingly threatened to destroy. 

By the time Roderich stood up and gathered his things, Gilbert was ready to go. He stood in the doorway, turning the light switch off and on like the enormous brat he was. The whole world flickered, light and then dark, and Roderich blinked hard. Voices were filtering in from outside – sports teams rounding their members up for a few final announcements, theater kids trundling out from musical rehearsals, etc, etc, ad infinitum. The school was putting on _The Sound of Music_ this year. Roderich had thought about auditioning, but unless he could play Captain Von Trapp he didn’t really have much interest. 

Gilbert was watching him, eyebrows scrunched together. Finally he said, “Sorry for Friday.” The hand that wasn’t on the light switch hung uselessly at his side. He was wearing a ton of rubber bands strung up his wrist that day – there was surely a story behind them, some sort of plot, some kind of game. His shoes were untied. 

Looking away was easy. It was always easy for Roderich not to look into people’s faces. At first he couldn’t really think of what to say. “Which part? Dragging me to the park when I said I had to call Lizzie, or…” 

“For saying I don’t care what happens to you. I do. It came out wrong.” 

“Were you going to make another piano on that piece of paper?” After he spoke, Roderich wished he had specified – _fake piano._ He should have made certain to distance himself a little more from the situation. No, he should have waited for Gilbert to mention the damn thing first. He looked pathetic now, didn’t he? 

“What song would you have taught me?” 

Roderich thought. His teacher was British, born “across the pond” from her husband – born squealing and strange and unknowing into a world full of shit she couldn’t have possibly anticipated. They met after so many years apart and confused. Things could fall together. Sometimes the world just sorted itself out, though of course you couldn’t count on that sort of luck. “My Bonny Lies Over the Ocean,’ or something like that, I guess,” Roderich said. He honestly hadn’t put much thought into it before. 

And then Gilbert was beside him, smelling like glue, for some reason, smelling like the kind of shampoo you pick up in hotels. Standing so close, Roderich realized Gilbert was a little shorter than he always imagined him – he’d always been taller than Roderich growing up, so he’d just sort of assumed. But things changed, of course they did, and Gilbert’s jaw was tighter, his large ears a little less noticeable, now. His eyes were a little narrowed, and he wasn’t smiling. In this moment, this slice of stark, frozen reality, Gilbert’s hair looked soft and there were a few strange scars above his lip Roderich had never noticed before, never thought to ask about. His lips were a tiny bit chapped, like the back of Roderich’s hands. He didn’t know what to expect. He tried to guess, and then ran out of time. 

Gilbert leaned in and kissed his cheek. Just gently, like a whisper. If Roderich hadn’t known better he would have said the gesture was almost reverent. 

When he pulled back, Gilbert licked his lips and fidgeted with the rubber bands on his arm. “Too soon?” he asked. His tone said the question was a joke, but there was no frivolity on his face, not even a trace of mania. 

In the stark lines of Gilbert’s jaw, in the furrow of his brows, Roderich could see a potential man. The little kid who’d pulled down his eyelids so the red stuff behind his skin could peek through and gross everybody out would be gone, evolved, refined into… Something else. Something Roderich was only now beginning to see. He knew Gilbert, but he hadn’t expected him to be so gentle. 

It was nothing like Lizzie’s kisses, but they were still so fresh on his skin. 

“I don’t know,” Roderich said. “Let me think about it.” 

“Of course, of course,” Gilbert said. “That’s what I was hoping you’d say.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gaaaaaaaasp~~~! AND THEN THE FIC WAS SHIPPY, AFTER ALL! mahahahaha, or something.
> 
> Alfred watches Star Trek religiously, and Alice mimics the technical jargon back in a robot voice. she makes fun, sure, but she's a pretty big fan of the character Q. (yay worldbuilding! worldbuilding is important, right?)
> 
> Roderich is a moody son of a gun, here, and I'm awfully sorry. also this chapter was mostly an argument. heh. oops.
> 
> thank you for reading, O visitors. I hope you're enjoying the story. have a lovely day!


	6. “Old McDonald had a Farm” – Or, Are Any Bystanders Actually Innocent?

Maybe in another world, another life, Roderich would have slid his hands up on Gilbert’s cheeks, fingers tracing his ears – perhaps he would have kissed him back, tenderly, slow as slow can be. In that moment, Gilbert’s face was very still, just waiting for Roderich, waiting for his dismissive smile, his awkward wave, his affectionate change of heart. Roderich knew that with a word – with even one of his unpracticed kisses –he could melt Gilbert right now. He was frozen again, as he’d been when he wasn’t sure what to do about Alice, but Roderich could send color and vibrancy surging back into his limbs, or drive all strength from his legs so he could barely stand. 

He could kiss Gilbert’s lip, just coaxing it open the slightest bit so he knew what it tasted like. He could kiss his cheek right back; he could kiss the edge of his lip, teasing, and see if Gilbert murmured, “That’s not fair,” or if he just took it. Gilbert would lean back into a desk. Roderich would be in control. 

That never happened. That absolutely never happened – but it would. Roderich knew. 

He knew all that just looking at how intently Gilbert watched him. It was a strange, new kind of power. Roderich couldn’t have imagined possessing it and feeling sad, but now there were so many things to wonder about. 

Roderich really had no choice in the matter – of course he was bound to think about Gilbert’s chapped lips on his cheek. It would happen whether he wanted it to or not; his brain was like a looped track, playing the same stupid bit of music ad infinitum. 

What was _too soon,_ anyway? If Roderich had to put off accepting kisses until after he stopped thinking about Lizzie forever then he would probably never get another kiss again. 

Beyond that, had Gilbert been gentle on purpose or had that just been nervousness showing through? 

Good God, it was maddening. 

Worse still, Roderich waited too long to make up his mind what to say – _“Thank you?”_ _“Give it a little more time, I think?”_ _“How soon is ‘too soon?’”_ _“How did I get this powerful?”_ Gilbert clapped his shoulder and wished him goodnight politely, decently. He hurried off down the hallway almost like he was running away from something, but not quite. He probably fancied it was just a brisk stroll, completely innocuous. Really, Roderich would have expected more harping, more demanding from Gilbert. He’d asked for nothing. 

He’d given a kiss and then rushed away empty-handed. Roderich himself lingered a little while. He glanced back into the detention room, checking out the doodles students had carved into the desks, the yellowing world map on the wall, the strange, unexplainable stain on the carpet over in the far corner. Perhaps someone had puked. Perhaps someone had bled, or spilled Kool-Aid or something. It didn’t matter. What did matter was that Roderich’s cheeks burned and he couldn’t decide if he was happy or angry. He didn’t tie his scarf before heading out. He just sort of wadded it up in his hand. 

Consequently, he wished he felt a little more put together when Sadiq stopped him. Roderich’s hair was likely flopping in his face – perhaps his glasses weren’t straight. Perhaps his cheeks were red and he looked like he was huffing down the hall out of breath. Standing together, now, in the yellow flicker of the school’s lighting, Roderich saw how much bigger Sadiq was than him – more than a head taller. His lips looked thick and soft. They would be so smooth on the skin compared to Gilbert’s. They looked almost showy, to Roderich. 

Sadiq smiled – more of a cool twitch of his lip, really, though it would have been unfair to call it a smirk – and held out his hand for a good old-fashioned, gentlemanly handshake. Damn him. His fingers were flecked with gold and purple paint. He was here for art club; Roderich had heard they were putting together a mural for the winter formal. Somehow the paint splatters looked kind of like decoration rather than simple messiness – it might have been the way the gold flakes glinted. Sadiq had a gold necklace on, too, thin and understated. It brought out the warmth in his skin. 

“Hey,” Sadiq said. “You’re Roderich. Lizzie’s friend. We haven’t really talked, have we?” 

“Lizzie’s friend,” Roderich echoed. He tried to load his voice with sarcasm, with a passive-aggressive hurt, but he knew it just came out sounding tired and sort of glum. A month ago he would have called Sadiq “Lizzie’s friend” and left it at that. “Oh, yes. I’m Roderich.” 

“Sadiq Adnan.” As if Roderich didn’t already know his name. Sadiq had a tattoo peeking out from his shirt sleeve, something curling slick and sinuous over his shoulder. Roderich knew Lizzie likely stared at the blue-black hints of it and thought about finally yanking back the sleeve, finally seeing what he’d cared enough about to brand onto his flesh. Sadiq didn’t look like the kind of young man to get a frivolous tattoo. And that’s what he was, wasn’t he? A senior – eighteen already, probably. A young man. He said, “Listen, is something wrong?” and maybe he actually cared. 

Roderich thought he probably didn’t. Couldn’t. Perhaps he was a little young to take up cynicism, but there you have it. 

“No,” he said. “Nothing at all.” 

Sadiq nodded, like the matter was closed. “Good.” 

Roderich could have dropped it, let the subject just flutter away. Surely Sadiq would forget this ever happened. They would both just mosey off their different ways, conversation finished and awkwardness dissolving into the ether. Still, Roderich had to say, “Why do you ask?” 

“You looked upset at lunch. Lizzie was worried.” Sadiq shrugged. No skin off his back – he was just looking out for their lady friend, wasn’t he? He wasn’t the one being overly defensive, the one whose choices were getting harder to read. 

It occurred to Roderich to tell him everything right then, to ask him to stay away at lunchtime. Hurry back where he came from. Roderich had been dating Lizzie for months – the entire time she’d known Sadiq, to his knowledge –and yet Mr. Adnan here didn’t know why Lizzie suddenly smoothing down another guy’s shirt might rub him wrong. Roderich was reflecting back on all the witty little anecdotes she’d told about her art class friend in a new light, but Sadiq wouldn’t think of that. Couldn’t _know._ Sometimes Lizzie had chuckled when she said his name, like _Oh, Sadiq._ Roderich had taken it to mean goofy, playful familiarity. Perhaps he had been blinder than he’d thought. 

Of course he couldn’t say any of that. Lizzie was his best friend, his dearest, his most trusted. He didn’t like imagining her face if she heard he’d tried to hurt her, sabotage her new relationship with this golden, grinning young man. Roderich said, “I’ll call her when I get home.” 

“Thanks. Could I ask you something, as her friend?” 

Roderich was wary. He wanted to be outside, wanted to feel the blast of cold on his face to banish this damned heat. “What?” 

“Where should I take Lizzie to dinner?” Sadiq didn’t even seem fazed asking a near-stranger about his romantic pursuits. His voice was seamless, polished like rich red mahogany, and he smiled when he met Roderich’s eyes. It looked almost like he thought they were sharing a secret. “I’d hate to lose out to the other guys.” 

Oh, yeah, Roderich thought. We all know how that feels. 

How many other guys _were_ there, anyway? 

For a moment, he wanted to recommend the French restaurant where he’d booked reservations, fancy-shmancy and all done up with candle glow on people’s faces and thick cloth napkins draped over their knees. It would make sense, perhaps, for Sadiq to lead Lizzie about in a dress, her hair loose around her shoulders and earrings alight and trembling against her cheeks. 

Of course, this was also the Lizzie Roderich knew well who liked wearing oversized hoodies and sitting with her feet up on the furniture. He’d wanted to see her in a dress, and he knew Sadiq had that power – Sadiq could probably make her melt back into a desk, waiting for kisses, hoping for kisses. That didn’t mean she wanted to get all fancied up. She didn’t have to date Roderich; she didn’t have to date Sadiq. She didn’t have to date anyone, but she should be happy, in the end. Maybe Roderich’s methods just weren’t what she wanted – maybe Lizzie not liking his kisses didn’t mean they were bad. 

Then again, Roderich had only kissed Lizzie, so how should he know, really? It didn’t matter. 

“Don’t take her out to dinner,” Roderich said. “Get a picnic and bring it to her house. Eat on the floor. I never thought to do that.” 

Sadiq said, “Wait, were you and Lizzie –?” The confusion and surprise in his voice, here, could almost have been offensive. Roderich decided not to acknowledge it; he held his face very still. Lizzie sometimes teased him about radiating _gay best friend_ vibes. She punched his shoulder and bit just a little when she kissed him. He usually tried to cough up a halfhearted laugh, but it would have been easier had he found the joke a little funny. 

“We’ve dated,” Roderich said. Sadiq tilted his head back just a bit, appraising, his lips pressed together a little tighter. Roderich decided to assure him. Later on, he wouldn’t really be able to explain to himself why. “It’s over. It’s been over for a long time.” 

“Thanks.” Sadiq passed him a little wave, somehow both casual and elegant. Effortless. He turned and sauntered off back to his paintings, to this grand mural the school had been told to expect soon enough. There were paintbrushes in the back pocket of his jeans. 

Roderich couldn’t think of anything to say at first, so he echoed, “Thank you.” Then he went home and played the piano until his father came and told him he was keeping the whole house awake. He did the rest of his homework in the frozen almost-dawn, already dressed for a new day at school. 

Talking to Sadiq hadn’t made him forget – he would see Gilbert again the next day. Would he be expected to have an answer to the kiss, some sort of final verdict? What would happen if he didn’t? Would they drift away; would Gilbert go quiet and brooding? Would he pretend like nothing had happened? Normally Roderich would have expected Gilbert to fuss and badger him, but now he wasn’t so sure. It would be better, in the end, if Gilbert decided to be obnoxious about it. At least that would give Roderich some idea how to respond. 

Roderich would say he didn’t hear the phone ringing while he was practicing the evening away, but he did. He didn’t rise, he didn’t answer. Lizzie left messages, and he listened to them before going to school. 

* 

Probably everything would have been alright if Roderich ate lunch with Lizzie and Co., but he didn’t risk it. He didn’t want to hear about Sadiq pulling out all the stops and wrapping luxurious Turkish dishes in glinting gold-embroidered silk sacks, spreading a rich carpet out on the floor and talking sports with her. A picnic to suit both of them. Roderich could imagine it easily, but he didn’t want to. He didn’t even know about Turkish foods, but in his head he imagined the smell to be a little warm, a little spicy. There would be mountains of baklava, or something. Whatever. 

Instead, Roderich brought his lunch and sat in the hallway again. The tile floor and white-plaster walls were freezing. Had Roderich been the whimsical sort, he could have imagined himself huddling down in a cave, waiting for morning. As it was, he ate a dry sandwich and composed pensive, soothing melodies in his head. Then Gilbert showed up, 

Ludwig and a plaster model of the moon in tow. Of course, it wasn’t a proper model of the moon. Gilbert’s version was covered in palaces and little villages, all built carefully out of what looked like hardened Play-Doh. The whole thing reeked like a hot glue gun had exploded somewhere nearby. 

“This seat taken?” Gilbert smirked, plopping himself down next to Roderich. He picked the second half of Roderich’s sandwich out of his little Tupperware box and bit into it like it was the most natural thing in the world. Roderich only tried a little, little bit to be annoyed. 

Ludwig was still standing awkwardly. Poor guy. He muttered, “So we’re not going to the cafeteria?” and then sort of crouched down, not quite sitting. He’d slicked his hair back in an old fashioned sort of way and was wearing a button-down shirt. 

“Nope,” Gilbert said. “We’re gonna keep Miss Priss company. Doesn’t he look sad?” 

“I’m not sad,” Roderich said. He tugged his backpack closer to his leg. There was a pencil stuck in the ceiling even out here in the hall; wet, slushy footprints lined most of the floor this time of year. Gilbert looked tired, maybe a bit paler than usual. Roderich considered laying a wrist across his forehead to check for a fever, but that would likely just inspire confrontation about Gilbert’s kiss a little sooner. It was a weird thought, but Roderich knew Gilbert would probably have done it for him. “But it’s been a while since you’ve called me Miss Priss.” 

Ludwig smiled, though it didn’t really look like he wanted to. He had set the moon down on the tile before him; he glanced up at Roderich and then let his eyes flicker away just as quickly. Shy, or skittish? They were such light blue eyes, almost delicate, almost frosty, just a few shades away from milky blindness. His face was a little wider than Gilbert’s, his palms a little rougher. “He used to call you that all the time at home, but lately it’s only ‘Roderich this,’ and ‘Roderich that,’ and ‘I bet Roderich’s going to teach me something dumb like ‘Old McDonald’ today.” 

“I don’t –” Gilbert cracked his knuckles; he tore Roderich’s paper lunch sack into sad brown shreds and wadded them up in his palm. Constant, fidgeting energy. Apparently they’d graduated from “Miss Priss” to “Roddy” to “Roderich. That was pretty touching. 

Roderich snickered. “Old McDonald’ is actually scheduled for next week, but I guess we can do it today. If you’re so eager.” 

“Actually, Roderich, about that – I may have found something better than the paper-piano. If you can believe it.” Gilbert was so close, now; their shoulders knocked together, and if Roderich untucked his legs they would brush against Gilbert’s torn up jeans. 

“What is it, then?” Roderich asked. 

“A surprise.” Gilbert’s manic smiles weren’t always ominous and too high-strung, too wild – perhaps sometimes they were almost fun, like we was planning to go whizzing off on some grand adventure and he’d be totally willing to take Roderich along as well. He was a diabolical Christmas elf today. 

They talked, for a while, all three of them. Eventually Ludwig let himself lean back against the wall; then he sat properly. It wasn’t much, but for a while it was warm. Roderich learned that Gilbert used up all the floss in the bathroom – hell, he learned he _flossed,_ period. He learned that Ludwig and Gilbert had been born in Germany and still had dual citizenship. Most people in school pronounced Ludwig’s name wrong, too; it was actually kind of a revelation how patient the brothers had to be not to correct almost everyone all the time. For Ludwig that was probably just being a kind of subdued, shy person. Who knows why Gilbert kept his mouth shut. 

They hit such deep and meaningful conversation points as: 

“Were you there in elementary school when Gilbert chugged Dr. Pepper for a science project?” 

And, “That’s nothing, Roderich – you iron your own pants, but Ludwig has all his clothes organized by color, size and freaking _fabric type._ ” 

And, “I started playing the piano in Kindergarten. Really, I think it’s always been a part of my ‘proper education.’” 

And, finally, when things started going bad, Ludwig said – 

“If I had a nickel for every time Gilbert put on his ‘I’m sneaking around and you can’t stop me’ face, our apartment would be buried in coins.” Roderich said, “That sounds horrible.” 

“Yeah.” 

Roderich was prepared to laugh, but Gilbert’s face sort of clicked to _Dangerous_ mode and he bit the inside of his cheek instead. From the outside, that had seemed like an innocuous remark, nothing much to worry about. Roderich wondered if there was some kind of hidden anger surging under Ludwig’s voice, something making that _Yeah_ into a threat, like the subterranean stream feeding a well. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d failed to hear something like that. Maybe this topic was a seemingly innocent old scab that would bleed a lot if someone ripped it open again. 

Either way, Gilbert sounded mad, now. “What? No, Ludwig. You know I always say what’s on my mind.” 

“He’s good at keeping secrets lately,” said Ludwig. He was only looking at Roderich, now, staring at his cheek, or at the bit of obstinate hair that was probably sticking up again by his forehead. 

“No, I’m not.” 

“Do you keep secrets from Roderich? I bet you don’t.” 

Roderich met Ludwig’s eyes now, finally – he’d been putting it off. Perhaps Ludwig was just looking for an ally, or maybe he was furious with him, too. He was so steely and grownup, for a freshman. “He does,” Roderich said. Maybe he should have covered for Gilbert, but it hadn’t really been so long ago that he’d begged for answers out in the snow, face blazing with cold and eyes stinging. He’d felt trapped and hopeless, hadn’t he? Ludwig sounded frustrated, like he didn’t know how to break through this wall of silence, like he wasn’t used to any kind of silence at all from his brother. Roderich remembered how it had seemed Ludwig wanted to talk to him, so many days ago, in math class. He’d scurried away without offering him a word. Maybe Ludwig had been waiting for this moment. 

“Don’t gang up on me!” Gilbert bundled himself to his feet; he scooped the moon up off the floor and tucked it under his arm. Roderich couldn’t quite manage to look him in the face, but Ludwig didn’t seem to have any trouble. 

“It’s kind of sad that we have to,” he said. Their voices were similar, Roderich realized, but Ludwig’s was deeper and Gilbert’s felt more like a talk show host’s. Buoyant and warm. 

“You don’t! You would if I kept a lot of secrets, but I _don’t!_ ” 

“Then why have you been telling me that you and Roderich are in detention for some strange, new, mysterious crime I can’t hear anything about, that can’t possibly have anything to do with me?” 

“I’ve just been telling you that you can’t believe everything you hear, and that most people who gossip are just sort of… Puking up words that don’t mean anything. I’m looking out for you! Brotherly advice.” 

“And I’m not allowed to go ask any teachers, because…?” 

“I don’t want you mixed up in anything. You have to keep a low profile. Goddammit, Luddy, I’m looking out for you.” 

“Really?” Ludwig sounded so hurt. Roderich imagined that if he’d had access to a piano – and, of course, a musical voice with which to express himself – he’d play something stormy, something raging, sobbing. The brothers were nearly inseparable, and you know what? Ludwig should have been in detention, too. Roderich had said so from day one. 

Sure, Gilbert was trying to protect his brother, but at what cost? Begging him to stuff his ears full of half-assed reassurances while teachers eye him with distrust wasn’t going to solve anything. They’d drift farther apart; Ludwig would know he had been coddled, babied. Surely he knew what was going on; surely he had at least some idea. He probably just wanted the same thing Roderich had asked for out on the playground. He had a right to know what he was up against. 

So Roderich spoke. He didn’t want to think about it; probably he’d be angry with himself later. He said, “The rumors I’ve heard are true. We’re in detention because of altered student records.” 

“I knew it! Is _he_ lying, too, Gilbert?” 

“What – you believe him?” 

Ludwig’s hand was very warm on Roderich’s arm; his grip was strong. One shove from him could send anyone on the school’s football team sliding back against the ground, Roderich figured. Of course, Ludwig chose to play soccer instead, and he just said “Thank you” a lot when people questioned his decision. When he spoke, Roderich listened for subterranean currents of dislike, anger. Ludwig only sounded kind of sad. “I should be punished instead of you, Roderich. I’m very sorry.” 

“It’s not quite that simple –” Roderich began, but then couldn’t manage to scrape words together. They trickled away, like water into cracked, starving soil. If he’d known Ludwig could sound this steady, this earnest about the whole matter he probably wouldn’t have been so mad at him for squeezing out of punishment. Ludwig was looking at him with so much sympathy, like he was a martyr somehow. 

Ludwig asked him, “Why didn’t you tell them it was me, not you? Did he _make_ you stay quiet?” 

Gilbert kicked Ludwig’s foot, almost playful. “He knows I couldn’t do that, even if I wanted to.” 

“Be that as it may.” Ludwig stood up and slung his backpack over his shoulder. He nodded to Roderich – it could have been a stiff military salute for all its stuffiness. His face closed up so quickly. Ludwig was one of those guys who strode through the hall with his arms crossed tight over his chest. 

“Ludwig, where are you going?” Gilbert was the older brother, but in that moment he was putting himself at Ludwig’s mercy. It didn’t seem the time for smiles, and his was sort of shaking at the corners. Roderich imagined that if he took Gilbert’s hands in that moment they would be sweaty and trembling. He was strong enough to bounce from one project to another, ever more elaborate shenanigans unfolding around him, moving on full of life and mischief despite the weird looks he got from most of their classmates. He was strong enough to ruffle Roderich’s hair when he couldn’t expect anything but a glare, kiss his cheek when he could well have anticipated rejection. Gilbert was strong, sure. But if 

Ludwig yelled at him now, Roderich wasn’t sure he’d be able to pull himself together. 

Roderich climbed onto his knees and put a hand on Gilbert’s arm, the same way they’d walked around together when Gilbert had tricked him into going to the park. For a moment, neither of them moved. 

“To talk to the principal. Of course,” Ludwig said. 

Gilbert surged forward, balling his hands into fists at his sides. He reminded Roderich of a child about to stomp his foot, to demand satisfaction – Roderich lowered his hand. 

“Don’t!” 

“I have to.” 

“No, you don’t!” 

“Maybe you don’t, but I’m not you.” 

Of all the things Ludwig could have said – of all the ways he might have spat out the word “You,” this was probably the worst. It wasn’t aggressive or accusatory. It was confused. He didn’t understand his brother, didn’t respect his choices. Gilbert chased after him, babbling, voice rising into a sort of mad, hopeful plea. Everyone in the halls must have heard them. One teacher even stuck his head out the classroom door to send a disgruntled glance up and down the hallway. 

Roderich ate an orange and then went to the nearest bathroom to wash the juice off his hands. 

Gilbert wasn’t in detention; Alice said he had gotten into a shouting match with his brother and the principal simultaneously and his grandfather had had to come and pick them up. Ludwig confessed his part of the crime, but his sentence wasn’t any of Roderich’s beeswax. Apparently it wasn’t nearly so bad as anything they could possibly cook up for Roderich and Gilbert, she said. They were so terribly special. Of course, she also said his grandfather was blind and his seeing eye dog looked uncannily like Ludwig, so she might have just been messing with him. Roderich could never be totally sure. He did his homework in peace and Alice painted tiny, fragile flowers on her fingernails. 

“Why couldn’t you be sweet and naïve like Ludwig?” she asked. 

Roderich just shrugged. It didn’t seem like a good day for bullshit. 

Time passed slowly, but the sky was huge and clear when Alice and Roderich got to go home. Gilbert was waiting for them, apparently, leaning back against the fingerprint-smeary flagpole, headphones crammed in his ears. He’d nearly chewed through his lip; it looked like it had been bleeding recently. From afar, the cut might have almost been a lip ring. It was kind of crusty and depressing close up, though. 

“Looks like your little delinquent boyfriend is still around,” Alice mumbled. “How sweet.” 

Roderich probably should have corrected her, but instead he just said, “Goodnight, Ms. Kirkland,” and, to Gilbert, “Did you put anything on your lip?” 

“I cleaned it off with some paper towels,” Gilbert said. His smile was back; it had snuck back to full strength while Roderich was keeping his head ducked and feeling like an asshole. “I’m sorry for flipping out in there.” 

“I shouldn’t have said anything,” Roderich said, though he didn’t really believe that. 

“Sure, sure,” Gilbert said. Alice was already trotting over to Al’s truck, it seemed – he had a Starfleet Academy bumper sticker and one of those horrible Mickey Mouse bobbleheads. “I’ve decided to take you out tonight.” 

“You could just walk me home,” Roderich said. He thought of Lizzie’s voicemails for the first time all day – at first she’d been worried, then eager, then mad. Then, of course, she’d been worried again. Thankfully neither of Roderich’s parents had answered the phone, or he wouldn’t have such a complete understanding of why he wasn’t allowed to walk out of the cafeteria. Maybe she wanted to talk about Sadiq – maybe it was his duty to talk about Sadiq, as her friend. “I should go home.” 

“Because of Lizzie?” Gilbert asked. Maybe his face darkened a little bit, or maybe it was a trick of the light. “You can just text her on my phone.” 

“Aren’t you going to ask me if I want to go with you? Is it just going to be us alone?” Perhaps this would be romantic. Perhaps they’d go to the restaurant Roderich had tried to book for himself and Lizzie; he could imagine it was even the same table they would have had, the same welcoming flickers of candlelight. It would be like a moving plot twist out of the romantic comedy previews that occasionally played before movies he’d seen with Lizzie. Sometimes Roderich suspected he might enjoy those films, despite their crass attempt at seeming elegant and deep, despite their glitzy romanticism. He liked Jane Austen films just fine, after all. 

“Sure,” Gilbert said. He nibbled on his lip just a little more – all the Chapstick in the world couldn’t save him now – and bunched his hands in his pockets. His backpack was gone, and so was the moon. “Wanna go play mini-golf with me and Antonio and his weird ass angry boyfriend?” 

“Oh,” Roderich said. “I suppose so.” 

“It’s not a date,” Gilbert assured him. “It isn’t a date until you’re ready for it to be. We still haven’t talked about that. You wanna talk about that?” 

“No. I’d rather talk about what happened with Ludwig and the principal.” 

“Alrighty then. Waiting in silence it is. Antonio should be here soon.” 

And he was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this is coming out later than I was hoping because of a variety of factors. much of it was written with swirly eyes, because I feel pretty gross. yuck. @_@
> 
> anyway, I threatened Jen a million years ago with the possibility of a goofy mini golf double date fic. so now it is happening, kind of. beware. 
> 
> also, to all the Americans out there, happy almost-Thanksgiving! to everyone else (and to people who don't like Thanksgiving, I guess...), I hope you're having the merriest Tuesday possible.


	7. “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” – Or, a Little Something about Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello, everyone~! I'm sorry this chapter took me so long to post, heh. I hope you enjoy it. :)

Antonio’s car was sort of faded and grimy inside, with sticky fruit juice stains in the cup holders and a rosary dangling from the rear-view mirror. Basically, it was the opposite of Francis’s car; it huffed and sputtered and took a long time slowing down whenever Antonio tried to jam on the breaks. There was a lanky, sour-faced guy sitting in the passenger’s seat – he seemed to snap out an angry something-or-other when Antonio leaned over him to roll down the window. It was one of those old-fashioned crank windows, and Antonio had no qualms about pressing his chest into his boyfriend’s thighs to reach it. Apparently the idea of personal space didn’t really occur to him, Roderich thought, and his car must have been practically ancient. Then again, Roderich had grown up around cars with doors that opened at the click of a button. Those cars could turn themselves on from far away, and this one seemed tired. It was weathered gold, the paint still a tiny bit sparkly under the streetlights and the tires sagging beneath its weight. 

“Watch it, dumbass, before you crush me and I freeze to death,” Antonio’s boyfriend said. He was wearing a button-down shirt that might have seemed posh if it hadn’t been so wrinkly; his red hair was thick and looked like he used conditioner every day. 

Antonio chuckled and hefted himself back up. His head brushed the rosary on the way and the beads jingled together, a twinkly sound, a little flash of color. “You guys want a lift?” 

“I guess so,” Gilbert said. “You don’t look like serial killers.” 

Antonio’s boyfriend met Roderich’s eyes. “Every time, they do this,” he said. “Always with the playacting and the goofing around like they’re five-year-olds.” 

“Ah. Yes,” Roderich said, and got in the back of the car. It didn’t look like Gilbert was going to actually get around to leaving anytime soon. He and Antonio were still babbling on about robbing banks and how you know a crook by the number of bumper stickers plastered all over his ride. 

“I’m Lovino. You’ve met this asshole?” Lovino jabbed his thumb in Tony’s general direction. 

“I have. I’m Roderich.” 

“As if you could be anyone else.” Lovino had a strange way of talking, like he was trying to make his voice both deeper and gruffer than it would be naturally. He was a bunny that had glued quills all over himself to look like a porcupine. Or something like that... Roderich realized that he’d thought that last line in Gilbert’s voice and shifted, uncomfortable in his seat. He put on his seatbelt. 

“Nice to meet you,” he offered. Lovino probably knew Roderich had waited too long to say anything; he kept quiet. There was a wet snow scraper by Roderich’s feet, along with a few discarded water bottles and a flyer from a special limited-edition museum exhibit. Something about pirates and other famed ne’er-do-wells. 

Gilbert was saying that Roderich would make an ideal thief because he liked to duck his head and “creep” about. Huh. Apparently he crept through the hallways, not even brushing other people’s shoulders. Apparently he could be mistaken for a ghost. Apparently Gilbert had noticed he didn’t usually touch people. Roderich wasn’t exactly sure how he felt about that. 

“Come on,” Lovino whined. “We’re going now, aren’t we, Tony?” 

Antonio laughed and shrugged, but the car rumbled awake beneath him, ready for action again. “You heard the man,” he said, and Gilbert trudged around to the door. 

Roderich would’ve rather driven off in quasi-comfortable silence; the car smelled musty, like someone had forgotten food in here a good while back and the stink opted to stick around. That would’ve been too easy. Tony asked him about school, and he answered in the proper voice he used for teachers and family guests. It was like someone was lurking around with a clipboard, grading him, checking to make sure his posture was okay. Tony asked him his hobbies and he murmured something about the piano, something about writing music. 

“He’s pretty much a musical genius,” Gilbert chuckled. How did he sound so gosh-darned pleased? Roderich was clearly tip-toeing around the idea, as eggshells aplenty crunched and crinkled beneath him. 

And anyway, why did Gilbert reach over and shake Roderich’s shoulder, so warm, so hopeful, shaking him as if he might manage to whip up a smile that way? Roderich held Gilbert’s eyes and tried to keep his face very still. 

“Beats out this guy, then,” Lovino said. Thank heaven for Lovino. “I keep trying to convince Tony he can’t sing, but does he listen?” 

“What was that? I wasn’t listening,” Tony smiled. His was a very peaceful, sleepy smile, and Roderich could see his eyes in the rear-view mirror. They were soft, watching the road. 

“Tell me we’re almost there.” It was difficult to imagine Lovino wearing an actual smile, something not so self-conscious. For some reason, it would have to be wrinkly as his shirt to be real, Roderich thought. Not quite so calculated. Something with crinkles by his eyes and maybe even a scrunched-up nose. His face would be prettier before he smiled, not that that would matter to anyone important. 

“Nope,” Tony said. 

He asked Roderich about his family (ordinary,) his pets (nonexistent,) and whether they did anything for the holidays. Roderich would’ve been tempted to start answering in monosyllables had he not glanced over to find Gilbert just… Watching him, pensive, cheek propped up sloppy on his palm. His lip was bleeding again, but just a little bit, and he nodded when Roderich said he liked instrumental holiday music but didn’t enjoy singing carols. He looked like, _Hey now, I wanna know more,_ and so Roderich kept talking. 

He told a story about when he was really small and didn’t want his mom to throw away broken Christmas ornaments. He’d put them back in the box with all the others and his dad had accidentally sliced his hand open on the ragged edges. 

“Aw,” Tony said. 

“I would’ve just helped you glue ‘em back together,” Gilbert said, instead, and for some reason Roderich kind of liked the idea. He tried to remember if he’d ever told Lizzie that story, but for some reason it sort of blended into other things he might have told her. 

It didn’t matter. 

They were there soon enough, at a goofy, neon-lit indoor mini-golf/rock climbing/laser tag extravaganza. It was the kind of place athletic kids like Gilbert would’ve drooled over long ago, where Roderich would’ve been angry that they made him wear a scratchy wristband. The parking lot was mostly empty. And no surprise – it was a grim day, with a freezing night waiting for all of them. 

“Antonio works here, of all places,” Lovino said. “So he drags me here a lot.” 

“We get a discount,” Tony supplied. Interesting that he said “we” instead of “I.” Maybe these two were the sort of high school sweethearts who could stay together forever. 

“Some kind of date, though,” Lovino shot back. And then, to Roderich, “He’s taking me to the movies after. It’s nice because he usually passes out in the middle of whatever we watch, so I always get to pick.” 

Tony looped an arm loosely around Lovino’s back, and they strolled towards the mini-golf place. They might’ve made a nice photograph. Roderich thought of asking Gilbert if they were going to the movies, too, but instead he said, “Is anyone here actually good at mini-golf?” 

“Tony is,” Gilbert responded, quick, like he’d been waiting for his cue. “And me, of course. Obviously.” 

None of them were actually very good at all. 

Roderich wasn’t surprised, of course. 

Everybody knew Tony and they got waved in without any credit cards being swiped; Roderich found himself holding a scuffed club-dealie and looking out at a fake-grass maze of winding paths. There were gaping clown mouths to scoot the golf balls inside; there were the stereotypical windmills churning up sticky-sweet air. You had the choice to nudge your ball into the bottom of the volcano, or send it shooting up a little ramp in hopes of getting it in the sputtering top bit. It was all the sort of set up that was supposed to look grand when you’re little and ends up kind of peeling and lonely from above. 

That was probably it. It was probably all about the angle. 

Roderich tried to imagine himself young again; he tried to have a little fun. Thing was, even as a kid he would’ve been like, _This is the third time I’ve knocked the stupid ball in the river. How about I just forfeit?_

Oh well. 

Gilbert launched heroic rescue missions for the first two balls Roderich lost to the water; he got yelled at for scrambling down the wall once, and dropped his miniature golf club in the second. He’d been trying to fish the ball out, see, with Lovino half-shoving his shoulder and muttering, Don’t slip, don’t slip, under his breath. 

“Fudge,” Gilbert muttered, and then, kind of self-consciously switching it up, “Shit.” 

They watched the club drift thoughtfully away down the river and flop over one of those cheap mini-waterfalls. The water was gloppy and greenish, and Roderich couldn’t see his golf ball anymore. 

“You can share my club, I guess,” Antonio offered. He was standing with his elbow propped up on the back of a garish, grinning carousel-style horse. The idea behind that particular course marker was still kind of unclear to Roderich. 

“No, he can share Roderich’s club,” Lovino interjected. “Dumbass.” 

First off, no, Gilbert didn’t stand behind Roderich and hold his arms steady, teaching him how to swing the mini-golf club. That would have been just a few steps too embarrassing, thanks, especially considering there were still one or two soccer moms and dads milling about, cotton candy sticky children in tow. 

Roderich could see it now. Gilbert would be breathing soft and tender against his neck, so ridiculously warm and close. He’d start in on careful swings, their movements fluid and together. Gilbert’s skin would brush his, but only in slivers; Gilbert’s leg would waver a few inches from his, but still apart. And then Gilbert would whisper something about his “badass mini-golf skills,” or whatever, and the moment would be lost. Roderich would be overly aware of the tackiness of the crinkling plastic grass. The stares of those few kids here and there. The pimple on the back of his neck; the awkward way his pants fit sometimes; the mud on his shoelaces; his broken fingernail. He’d feel exposed and ugly. 

More than anything he’d feel embarrassed, and he would wiggle out of Gilbert’s arms. He’d think about how they had to save that kind of cutesy play for people in romcoms and fairytales. He’d think about how some of the clothes at the bottom of his hamper still smelled like Lizzie’s shampoo. 

He wouldn’t necessarily believe it’d be better that way, but you never know. Gilbert would look hurt, and they’d probably go home earlier than expected. 

So no, Gilbert didn’t try to hold him. They did joke-fight over the club. They did spin it like a baton, something probably against the rules that Gilbert was unexpectedly good at. Roderich did find himself, somehow, against all odds, posing with the club like a cane and using a very posh voice to trill, “I say, dear fellow, don’t run on the grass. Were you raised in a barn?” 

Gilbert chuckled and stomped down some more of the fake grass with his sneaker. “I do what I want,” he said. “Take that, old man.” 

Lovino said, “God help me, not you, too, Roderich,” and then, to Tony, “Why haven’t you gotten us sodas already?” 

It was about midway through the course that Roderich realized he had no idea who was winning. Lovino had defeated possibly a third of the holes by picking his ball up and walking it to the finish line, grumbling or smirking or some weird combination of the two. 

“Hole in one,” he said, once, and Tony agreed, “Hole in one.” 

Of course they talked about things. It came as less of a surprise than Roderich would have expected, especially considering how topsy-turvy things had been lately, when Lovino started drawling about the “stupid little crush” Gilbert had had on him in middle school. Honestly, Roderich had kind of wanted to say, “I know.” He could have said, “He hasn’t exactly been subtle, lately.” 

It kind of made him wonder why he hadn’t noticed before, when Lovino said he used to be so annoying about it. He didn’t have Gilbert’s number in the cellphone he’d left uncharged in his bedroom. Maybe that was part of it. Gilbert had never seen the inside of his house. 

That was probably why. 

Maybe they were expecting some kind of dramatic, over the top reaction. A grimace, a smooch, an exclamation. Roderich was just trying not to look uncomfortable. He met Gilbert’s eyes for a second, and then said, “He gave me a bloody nose on the playground once, back then.” 

“The jerk,” Lovino said. 

And that was that, for now. There were so many unspoken things sort of drifting in the air around them, though, it was only a matter of time. 

Roderich lost the third ball when a little kid stole it and put it in her mouth. 

“Suzie, no!” her mother squeaked. They were both wearing the kind of Christmas sweaters you got at grandma stores; the little girl had knotted curls. Roderich watched Tony and Lovino fold against the picket fence barrier, Antonio’s arm naturally finding its way around his boyfriend’s waist. Lovino squirmed back to free himself, but not fast enough. Roderich smiled at him and he looked away. 

They left Gilbert to deal with little Suzie’s mom, and by the time he was done Lovino announced that he’d had enough of mini-golf, or far _more_ than enough, thanks so much, and couldn’t they just get food now? Goddammit. Roderich was glad he didn’t have to be the one to say it. 

It was easy enough to leave the course. They just carried their clubs to the guy behind the desk and said thanks, good show, have a nice night, everybody. No, we don’t know anything about the club caught in the waterfall. Everything had been so ridiculously complicated lately – it was only now that Roderich remembered detention, remembered his wavering chances at university, remembered hoping against hope that he would get out of all this with his dignity intact, that this shitstorm would someday resign itself to becoming just a cringe-worthy memory he could tuck under the rug of a respectable new life. Being an adult, being safe and respectable… All that felt so far away. It had always been a given before. 

Roderich was so tired of thinking about all this nonsense. He listened really hard to everybody talking, anecdotes washing over him like he was sinking deeper and deeper into a pool, his ears filling with water so everything sounded like the parents talking in Peanuts cartoons. His problems blurred out, he imagined, like everything did looking up from beneath the water. He used to scan the shapes passing by that he knew should be people, should be waving trees, trying to find any solid shape save for the pounding sunlight. 

Maybe he needed this. 

He was able to enter the conversation again surprisingly fast. 

“Gilbert always used to bring the stupidest stuff to school, didn’t he?” Antonio was saying, fondly. 

“What’s this ‘used to?’ He wore a stapled-together crown to detention not too long ago,” Roderich contributed. “And he brought this big… This big model of the moon. With moon bases on it, if I recall.” 

“You loved my moon bases,” Gilbert said. He grinned like he’d forgotten how horribly that conversation had ended up. “I could tell.” He paused, chewing on his lip. Roderich imagined he could probably taste blood again. Why didn’t that stop him nibbling, then? “They were moon kingdoms, actually. I’m surprised you missed the castles.” 

They got food in the kind of diner Roderich didn’t know very well, with plastic seats and homey golden lighting. The food was greasy but fine; it was kind of amazing how much soda Lovino could drink. Maybe Roderich would look back at his thoughtful high school time and wish he’d done this kind of thing more often, this mindless, playful sort of thing, just sitting pretty while Gilbert tossed fries at his head and Tony made dumb jokes. 

_Don’t think,_ he reminded himself, and Gilbert ordered milkshakes. 

Things only got quiet when Lovino whisked Tony away to their movie. Antonio shook Roderich’s hand for some reason, while Lovino stood behind him, arms crossed and eyes rolling appropriately. Then they were gone, a starchy scarf all in dapper cream around Lovino’s neck and Tony sporting kind of goofy mittens. 

Gilbert hopped out of the booth and climbed in the other side, so he was facing Roderich head-on. He folded his scabbed, desert-dry-and-peeling hands on the table before them and said, “So.” 

So, I don’t know. 

“You’re sort of putting me on the spot,” Roderich said. 

“That’s the idea. Do you want to get ice cream?” 

Roderich surveyed the dishes spread before them, eyebrows arched. His own sandwich was just over half-eaten; most of the fries on his plate had been carefully scooped off the seat next to him. Gilbert was a pretty good shot, but even when he’d managed to get one in Roderich’s ear he’d just shook it out again. “We had milkshakes, what? Two minutes ago.” Roderich wasn’t sure if he sounded catty or not. He decided to grin a little, just in case. 

“I’ll get coffee then,” Gilbert said. He did, and when it came he drank one of the creamers straight out of the little plastic cup-thing. He offered one to Roderich, who shook his head. 

Gilbert slurped his coffee in silence for a little, and Roderich glanced around the diner. There was a clock behind the counter, and fingerprint stains on the unlit jukebox. Poor sad thing probably didn’t even work anymore. It was just for show, he was sure. The tiles were nice enough, though, and most everything was clean. 

“You still haven’t asked me about the surprise,” Gilbert said, finally. He didn’t sound put out. Like he was trying a bit too hard to sound gleeful, really. 

“What?” Roderich’s head snapped back; he was blearier than he’d expected. The clock behind the counter said it was after eight. He wasn’t supposed to be tired this early. 

“I said I had a surprise. It’s in my backpack.” 

Oh, right. Roderich went over a few things to say, like shuffling through a deck of cards. He settled for, “Thanks, then.” 

Gilbert stuck out his lip. “You haven’t even seen it yet.” 

“Well, then show me.” 

Gilbert held up one of those shooshing, ah-ah-ah, hold-your-horses type fingers and bent down to rummage around in his bag. It had been lying haphazardly under the table – Roderich finally realized what he’d been stepping on all evening. His own backpack was tucked up on the seat between his arm and the wall. There were sounds like crumpling paper, then ripping paper, and then Gilbert resurfaced with one of those tiny, shrill-voiced fake pianos. It must have been really cumbersome to carry around all day, getting in the way of everything. It had a lot of buttons, and very shiny keys. 

“Goodness,” Roderich said, and Gilbert waggled his eyebrows. 

Gilbert said, “It has all sorts of functions. Mambo music. Polkas. This weird techno thing. A few steps up from a piece of paper with keys drawn on it, right” 

Roderich wasn’t so sure. It was a fancy looking toy, definitely, but he had to shake the image of Gilbert tilting his head back and bellowing nursery rhyme songs with his eyes closed out of his head. This felt somehow less natural, less in line with their out of sync, spur of the moment voice, but it must have cost Gilbert a little something to bring home. 

Everything would sound better, now, anyway. The songs would actually sound a little more like they were meant to be played. 

“Oh, yes,” Roderich said, and Gilbert responded by switching the contraption on and slamming his finger down on one of the keys. A tinny, cheerful dancing tune made a few servers and most all of their fellow patrons sort of crane their necks to look back at them. At least, that’s what it felt like to Roderich. He could feel his cheeks set fire. “Shhh! Gilbert. We’re not the only ones in here.” 

Gilbert clicked the button a second time and scooted the fake piano across the table. It nearly shoved Roderich’s sandwich plate into his lap. He said, “Then play a proper song, why don’t you,” and then nagged until Roderich did. 

He played something soft and sweet; his fingers slipped on the tiny keys a couple times, crowding each other a little. He got the hang of it. When he finished he sort of shook his head again, like he was refusing another offer of creamer straight from the cup. It hadn’t sounded right. 

“That was okay, I guess,” Gilbert said. 

“It sounds better on an actual piano, you know,” Roderich offered, almost like a defense. 

“Oh, sure. Do you want to play something else?” 

Roderich said, “Maybe later,” and then, after a beat, “Thank you, again.” 

Gilbert started piling all their dishes into a little stack, all the silverware clattering inside his one coffee cup at the very top. A very annoyed looking waitress came to collect the dish-tower before Roderich could think of anything to say. 

He thought of something eventually, but it wasn’t all that interesting. “What do you really want to do, after high school?” 

Gilbert snorted and looked down at his hands. Now that the waitress had taken his toys away he’d started scratching at the speaker bit on the fake piano, like he was trying to read in braille. “You mean, if I _graduate_ high school?” 

“Well, yes.” 

Gilbert thought a moment; he took a deep breath. Maybe it shook, or maybe that was Roderich’s imagination. “I’m going to become a dreaded knight, fearsome and bold. All will kneel before me!” 

“Maybe you’ll join the army or something along those lines,” Roderich mused. 

“Yeah. Maybe I’ll do that. Hell, I could do that tomorrow.” Gilbert kept scratching. He was so full of nervous tics it was kind of amazing he managed to walk without falling over himself. That was a cruel thought. Roderich could see him in the military, though, could see his step gaining a terrific purpose. It wouldn’t matter that he was kind of short, that his ears stuck out; his muscles would harden, his shoulders solidify. Every step he took could mean something, at least for a little while. 

He’d also have to clean latrines and bellow, “Yes, sir!” a lot probably, at least at first. Keep his mouth shut. Learn respect. 

“I’ve won a lot of awards, playing the piano,” Roderich said. He said it like he was fishing for something, but lord knew what that could be. 

“That’s old news,” said Gilbert. 

“I always sort of thought that meant something. That I’d play in concert halls or it would have all been for nothing. I guess… I guess that’s what I was thinking of?” Thinking of when? It was such a lame line. 

_Thinking of when it happened. When I let you help me._

_Thinking of when I asked you about your future. It was really me all along._

Roderich didn’t dwell on it. 

“Shut up,” Gilbert said, and Roderich sort of flinched. He shouldn’t have. Gilbert looked more awake, more like himself than he had most of the evening. “You sound so sad. You can still play in concert halls. But you don’t have to. You could also just teach elementary music class – whatever. Who cares?” 

Roderich talked without really thinking. Words dribbled out his mouth and into the air and he didn’t think about sounding whiny. Somehow, it was that sort of night. Maybe it was the idea that Gilbert had gone to Target or a music store of the mall or something and bought him a little piano. He’d felt so bad for losing a piece of paper he’d torn out of his notebook, for God’s sake. So Roderich said, “I care. A lot of people care.” He forced himself to look Gilbert in the eyes. “The sort of people who buy classical music CDs care.” 

“Good thing I’m not one of those people.” Gilbert reached as if he might take Roderich’s hand, and then changed his mind. He said, “Are we ever going to talk about –?” 

“You and Ludwig?” Roderich was surprised by the sudden steel in his voice. 

“I guess I deserve that. You have a song prepared for me to learn, don’t you? You’d better.” 

“I guess I could,” just that moment, Roderich decided on “Row, Row, Row Your Boat.” Again, it was that sort of night. 

He hesitated a bit too long, of course, and Gilbert said, “Teach me like old times or I press the mambo music button.” 

Roderich tried to laugh. “Old times? Teach you like _last week,_ more like.” 

Gilbert raised his eyebrows. “Mambo button.” 

“Here, stupid.” Roderich played “Row, Row, Row Your Boat.” He played it a few times, and one of the kids from a nearby table may or may not have sung a couple of the lines sort of sleepily. 

Then it was Gilbert’s turn, and he kept mangling even that little song, but that was okay. Eventually he was just mashing random keys. He kept trying to press the mambo button and Roderich would be forced to bat to his hand away. He went, “Shhh!” even though they were probably louder than the actual mambo would have been if it had managed to prevail. 

This couldn’t have gone on very long, and then Gilbert froze. 

He reached into his pocket. Gilbert’s eyes were wide like a startled cartoon character’s, but he just said, “Oh, hey. My phone’s been off this whole time! Shit.” He fished the little cellphone out of said pocket and it played the twinkly song that meant it was waking up. He’d remembered not to say fudge first that time, Roderich guessed, and of course he probably thought he looked a lot more macho for his trouble. 

Roderich’s fingers lingered over the piano keys – the _fake_ piano keys – and then folded back into his lap like settling birds. He’d briefly considered pressing the mambo button to regain Gilbert’s attention, but that wouldn’t have been any good at all. Gilbert’s phone was buzzing like a caged swarm of bees. Message after message. A whole angry flock of messages. 

“Really, Gilbert,” Roderich said. 

“Whoa, that’s a lot,” Gilbert chuckled. “I’d say I was popular, but they’re mostly for you.”


	8. “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” – Or, Try to Get Some Sleep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AND SO IT CONTINUES -- another chapter of the birthday present I started for Jen QUITE A LONG TIME AGO. Again, I'm sorry this took me so long. I never intended for the story to take such a long pause. This year has been absolutely crazy for me... At any rate, I've finished the story. There are three more updates after this one, and they should all be posted fairly soon now. I already sent them to Jen (SearchingForMercury, of course~). It's a birthday present, after all.... 
> 
> At least it was finished before this year's birthday, I suppose. :) 
> 
> As ever, I hope anyone who reads this enjoys it. <3 THANK YOU so much for reading!

                Roderich didn’t usually get text messages; some part of his brain functioned kind of like a stereotype of an old man’s, expecting them to be mostly hip chat-speak and punctuation masquerading as cutesy faces.  Instead, Lizzie was furious with him.  Gilbert didn’t want to give him the phone at first, matter of fact.

                “You can just call her when you get home,” he said, a couple times.  “That’ll be better.  Cool heads, quiet voices, and I don’t have to play middle man or watch you type like a grandpa.”

                “Give it to me,” Roderich said.  “She’s mad?”  He had known Lizzie was angry, and of course he knew she would be angrier when he broke his promise to Sadiq to call her, would be angrier still when he disappeared into the cold streets without so much as a smile.  Roderich tried to remember going so long without talking to Lizzie in days past – last year, he spoke to her every day, and even just last month he would never have let himself go so long without seeing her.  Even just brushing their shoulders together or complaining about homework, she was a staple of his world, like putting on shoes and practicing piano.  It had never occurred to Roderich how easy it would be to slide out of Lizzie’s life.  He didn’t even have to respond to her messages now, did he?  But he would.  He should.  Roderich clicked off the toy piano and its lights went dim. 

                “And there’s some from your parents, too.  Heh.  I probably should have thought to work this out with them first, or something.”  Gilbert spoke like one used to getting shouted at by adults he didn’t really know.  One edge of his mouth was still sort of inching upwards, like he was trying not to let a wry smile onto his face quite yet. 

                “This isn’t your fault,” Roderich said, and Gilbert passed over his cellphone the same way a little kid might reveal a stolen toy all smashed to slivers in his hand. 

                “Go ahead then, man.  We should be getting home soon, anyway,” Gilbert murmured.  He didn’t sound angry.  He was sort of tender, actually, watching Roderich scroll through the text messages and missed phone calls.  Roderich could feel his face contorting into a sneering, bitter frown, like he tasted something nasty, but he couldn’t shake it off as easily as he would have liked. 

                Gilbert was only trying to help, now.  He was nudging Roderich’s foot with his shoe under the table.  Strange that a gesture like that could feel so familiar and almost comforting, like a reassurance that he wasn’t alone. 

                Roderich asked Gilbert how to listen to messages on his phone, and Gilbert guffawed, starting to tease him.  Then, he took the phone back and showed him how it was done softly, even adding, “Took me a little while to get the mailbox set up.  My message is still Frankie and Tony imitating my voice, I think.”

                He was trying to make things better, but Roderich could only sort of raise his eyebrows and offer a halfhearted, “Yeah?”  It felt cheap, but he listened to his messages in silence, anyway, soaking in his parents’ disappointment.  They’d had to get Gilbert’s number from Lizzie, see, and didn’t _that_ raise questions?  Their only child, running around with strangers, getting detention for weeks at a time, disappearing for hours on end without any indication when he’d be back?  They never would have expected this from him, they said.  Even with how messy things had been lately, they never would have expected that they couldn’t even trust their only son.   

                Roderich felt like he was sinking into the plastic plush diner seat, probably full of Styrofoam fuzz and other people’s sweat.  Gilbert chewed his lip across the table, then mouthed, “Oh, fudge – shit – why,” or something like that and dabbed at his blooded lips with a wad of paper napkins.  Roderich’s father’s last message was just, “Gilbert – you tell our son we need to have a talk.”  The messages weren’t even _addressed_ to Roderich anymore. 

                “I’m sorry, Roderich,” Gilbert whispered.  “We can call Frankie now and get a ride – or maybe Tony’s movie’s over and he’ll swing by…”

                “That’s okay,” Roderich said.  He felt kind of numb, like the cold frosting the window panes and hardening the tree bark into brittle slabs outside was sinking into him somehow.  It had been happening slowly, he realized – a few months ago, these messages from his parents might have gotten him babbling, hysterical, or maybe even in tears.  He’d never been a disobedient child.  He’d never been one for shame, for regret.  It was suddenly very cold in the diner. 

                “That’s okay?  Roderich!  We need to get you home somehow.  Should’ve done it earlier, to be honest.”  Gilbert swallowed.  “I’ve liked your – I’ve liked hanging out with you, though.”

                Roderich answered without thinking.  He said, “Me too.”  Then, before he could make a mess of that, before he could think better of it, he said, “You call Frankie, or… Do what you like.  Get home.  I’m going to see if I can call my parents from the diner phone.”

                “That’s stupid.  You can just use my phone.  Here – I’m giving you explicit permission.  Call your parents.  Call long distance.  Whatever.”

                Roderich took a deep breath, and dialed his parents’ number on Gilbert’s phone.  He stared down at the table, listening to each warbling ring.  Gilbert slid the toy piano into Roderich’s backpack, and then patted the closed bag, something like satisfied. 

…

                All things considered, Roderich got off easy.  His mother stormed in the car coming to pick him up, and his father stormed with a bit of toothpaste clumped in the corner of his lip when he got back home.  They could have grounded him for the rest of the semester, given him a list of chores a mile long – they could have canceled piano lessons, and Roderich almost expected them to.  But they didn’t.  They said, “We’re disappointed, Roderich, and we expect to know _why_ you’ve been like this lately.  Is something wrong?”

                They said, and Roderich almost couldn’t believe it, “Can we help you?  With anything?”

                “I don’t think so,” Roderich said, gingerly, tip-toeing again.  “But thank you for wanting to.”

                His parents’ rage fizzled out, lingering in a dull ache behind their eyes, a hurt that Roderich would see lingering there for a few days and never quite forget. 

His mother felt his forehead, though, with the back of her hand and said he had a fever.  His father said, “Try to get some sleep, kid.  Maybe you’ll get to stay home from school tomorrow.”  He said this like it was a treat.  Like him calling the school could be as special as it was when Roderich was a kid, when lying bundled up in pajamas with a movie playing and a fever running could be cozy.  Snow glittered off everything in Roderich’s memories of those days, looking like a hundred thousand crystals instead of the grey, smeary slabs of ice this winter seemed so fond of.  He’d have been burrowed down in blankets, safe and warm, his worries buried under sparkling snow and sleep coming quickly, back then.

Now, Roderich really did try to sleep.  He lay awake for a long time, his feet cold no matter how many blankets he piled on top of them, his head swimming like that time in elementary school when Gilbert and Lizzie had both grabbed hold of his arms and pulled him on the Tilt-o-Whirl five times in a row.  He imagined Sadiq and Lizzie leaning against each other, watching a movie with lots of chase scenes and one-liners, the explosions reflected in their eyes.  He imagined her tracing Sadiq’s tattoo with the tips of her fingers, not quite pulling back his shirt yet, almost like she didn’t want to ruin the surprise.  He imagined himself and Gilbert watching a movie with soft music and a lot of kissing, and he imagined Gilbert leaning over to him with kissy lips.  He imagined one version where he shoved Gilbert off, and one where he laughed and said, “Ever the charmer,” in a voice that didn’t belong to him in real life.

It belonged to some actor, maybe.

Roderich wasn’t sure he slept, but he knew he dreamed that night.  He dreamt of himself in the tall lace-up boots again, playing the piano in the ocean, along that same grey, pebbly beach where his first memory took place.  Salt water lapped away at his boots, at the curling, antique legs of his instrument, and Gilbert chased a dog – the same dog that had evaded him as a child? – up and down the sand.  Gilbert was wearing a military jacket with sharp buttons, catching the moonlight brighter than any snowfall could.  Then Gilbert was leading an army, blood on his cheek and on his jacket, on his raging smile.  Roderich wasn’t sure he liked that image so much.

He imagined himself and Gilbert watching the movie together again, imagined them at the moment when things would really turn around for the protagonists.  When they would fall in or out of love.  He would lean his cheek down against Gilbert’s shoulder, and he’d be wearing a hoodie instead of the stiff military duds, and he’d smell like junk food and soda and something safe.  Something like Roderich’s home, here, like his bed under the stormy winter sky, something that Roderich couldn’t quite name.  His fever burned. 

He shook himself out of his daze when it was horribly, glaringly bright outside, and his mother brought him dry toast with just a little butter and tea out of a commemorative mug from a fancy theater in Washington DC.  She felt his forehead again with the back of her hand, and said she hoped Roderich felt better soon because Lizzie was going to be coming over that night.

“She’s worried about you,” Roderich’s mother said.  “We’re all worried about you.”

“I’m not going to school?” Roderich asked.

“It’s ten thirty,” his mother answered.

“I’m not going to detention?”

“I would imagine not, no,” his mother said, gently.  “Realistically you _should_ be, but these things aren’t always set in stone.  You’re sick.  Your father and I agreed.  The lady we spoke to on the phone understands – you didn’t tell me your English teacher was actually from England!”

“Mrs. Kirkland understands?  Did she say anything else?”

Roderich’s mother patted the bed, absently, and said, “It’s starting to snow, again.  Want me to get you a book?  I’m heading back to work soon.”

And she did head back to work, and she brought Roderich one of his father’s action adventure books.  Roderich read a little, propped up on pillows, and he watched the snow a little, and he thought about what exactly it was that didn’t have to be set in stone.  He imagined Gilbert alone in detention, without him, and felt a little twang.  Something like worry.  Was Gilbert even in detention that day?  He hadn’t been, last time.  Roderich hefted himself out of bed and grabbed a notebook from his bag – he wrote out the notes for “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” and practiced the piece a few times on the toy piano Gilbert had bought him.  His fingers stopped tripping over each other, after a while, even though the keys were so small.  He could almost learn to love the tinny, non-professional little sounds the instrument made. 

He pressed the mambo button, and listened for a little while.  He smiled, shy at first, and then wider, grinning up at his ceiling.  For once, he didn’t imagine what he would look like to anybody else.

…

                Roderich’s dad came home and stalked to his study for a while, and Roderich made soup for them both.  Then, a while later, when things were just beginning to get a little bit dark – and they did get dark early, lately – Lizzie came by.  Roderich hadn’t called her or anything, to clear the waters or confirm that she’d be coming.  He hadn’t even changed out of his pajamas.  There didn’t seem to be much point, somehow.  She came with a scowl and a couple grocery bags tossed over her arms. 

                “Lizzie.  Hello,” said Roderich.  He began to think of a way to apologize for not contacting her.  For drifting away like he had, for entertaining so many doubts about her, lately.  The problem with that plan was he’d have to start explaining what exactly those doubts had been…  And what if some of them turned out _not_ to be unfounded?  Roderich studied Lizzie’s face – her familiar freckles, her cheerful hair pins, the smudges of mascara above her eyes from when she was moving too quickly to notice.  He loved her, he realized, but there wasn’t anything really passionate there, no.  There wasn’t much of anything but a sense of steady companionship, familiarity.  He hoped she would be happy; he hoped they could still sometimes laugh together, and he might not feel so dully, stiflingly angry a few days, a few weeks, a few years from now.

                “We’re going to make gingerbread houses,” Lizzie announced.  “Cheap-style gingerbread houses.  With graham crackers.”

                “Of course,” said Roderich.  He shuddered a little in the cold from the door.  “Come inside.”

                They cleared off the dining room table and spread out red, green and white frosting packs, bottles of sparkly sprinkles that looked a little like snow, gumdrops and animal crackers and all sorts of things.  Lizzie stuffed the receipt for this offering into her pocket, and shrugged her sweater off onto the back of a chair.  She smiled, grim, and said, “This is supposed to be a happy time of year, isn’t it?”

                “I suppose so,” said Roderich.  He met her smile as well as he could, and sat down next to her.  They’d sat at this table together a hundred times before.  He could have sworn they’d made graham cracker houses at it before, too.  Lizzie slathered every graham cracker slice with tons of frosting, her tongue pinched between her teeth.  Every inch of that thing would be coated in candies when she was finished with it.  Roderich iced slowly, carefully, using only as much frosting as he needed to make the house stick together with a cheerful pointed roof.  He didn’t much care for frosting, but he liked butterscotch.  He was going to use little butterscotches at the door to the house, he decided, like porch lights peering out into an imaginary dark.  

                They talked a little, icing up their houses, but not about anything important, at first.  Lizzie told him how art club was going, how sports were going, how Sadiq’s mural turned out.  It was magnificent, apparently.  An illustration from a folktale, but somehow looking fresh and wild and almost ethereal, she said.  She didn’t use exactly those words.  She didn’t have to.  Roderich thought he could imagine how magical a mural Sadiq made could look, remembering how flecks of purple and gold paint could look like intentional decoration up his arms.  Maybe everything the guy touched turned to art.  Roderich liked to think he could learn to touch things and turn them to music – maybe someday, he thought, and stuck chocolate chips like shingles to the roof of his graham cracker house.

                “Sadiq tells me the picnic he made me was your idea.  That was sweet, Roderich,” Lizzie said, finally.  “That’s just the kind of date I’d like.”

                “I never did anything like that for you,” Roderich said, slowly.  “It’s about time someone did.”

                Lizzie laughed, but it was an uncomfortable laugh.  Roderich didn’t look up.  It was suddenly very important to alternate milk chocolate and white chocolate chips on the edge of his roof.                        

                “You didn’t call me back,” Lizzie said.  “Did I really hurt you?”

                “Not really,” said Roderich.  And then, “I don’t know yet.  I’m doing better than I thought.”

                “Are we going to be okay?” Lizzie asked, a bit of too-bright red frosting dangling at the tip of her knife. 

                “Of course we are,” said Roderich, and in that moment he absolutely meant it.  Lizzie seemed uncertain and very eager, and she’d spent a lot of money on candy to bring him something a little bit nice. 

                Lizzie punched him in the arm and laughed, so easily relieved.  She said, “Aren’t you going to use any of the _interesting_ candies?  I brought a bunch.”

                “I’m using the best candies,” said Roderich.

                He put on one of his favorite CDs, and Lizzie didn’t say a word to stop him or tease him.  She told him more about Sadiq’s picnic, and he tried his very best to be happy for her.

                “I hear you had a date, too, Mister!” Lizzie crowed, glowing a little after Roderich told her Sadiq had seemed really earnest and ready to do as well for her as possible.  He even told her how nervous Sadiq was about losing out to “the other guys.”

                “I guess I did,” Roderich murmured, wiping his knife clean onto a napkin and thinking of Gilbert sloppily dabbing at his bloody lip.  “I’d say it went… Better than expected.  As I said, I’m doing better than expected.”

                “Should I tell Gilbert you said that?” Lizzie said, licking frosting off her finger.  “Or maybe you’d better tell him yourself.  Do you even have his number?”

                “I don’t think I do,” Roderich confessed.

                “Here.  I’ll write it down for you,” Lizzie said.  “I’ll write down the whole Bad Friends Trio’s numbers for you while I’m at it.”

                “Bad what now?”

                Lizzie swept her hair over her shoulder and started scribbling away on a napkin.  She’d swiped the pen from a pile of Roderich’s mother’s work things on the counter.  “Oh, you know.  Gilbert, Tony and Francis.  The Bad Friends Trio?”

                “I guess that does make sense,” said Roderich. 

                “Really, I’m glad it went well.”  Lizzie did seem glad.  A couple days ago – even yesterday – Roderich would have been a little offended by how genuinely glad she seemed.  “I think Gilbert will be good for you.  I’ve seen how he makes you smile – even if you don’t want to.”

                Roderich thought of saying, “You make me smile, too,” but he didn’t.  Not because he chickened out, or anything, or thought of something that would capture lonesome feelings better.  No, because he realized that while yes, Lizzie did and always would make him smile, it simply _wasn’t the same._   

                “He also makes me want to punch through a wall, sometimes.  Or punch him in the face, more like,” said Roderich, instead. 

                “Well, that’s to be expected,” laughed Lizzie.

                Roderich hugged her at the door, when she was leaving into the night.  Lizzie rubbed his back, gentle, like a sister might, he thought.  She smiled like slightly-melting butterscotch, and then wrinkled her nose.  “Ugh, you still have a fever,” she said.  Then she went home.

                Roderich didn’t call Gilbert that night.  He thought, “I’ll see him tomorrow at school,” and didn’t scold himself, this time, for being a little pleased at the thought. 

                Just a _little_ , mind you. 


	9. “Ring-Around-the-Rosie” – Or, Falling

Actually, Gilbert wasn’t at school the next day, and neither was Ludwig, for that matter.  Roderich knew something was up when Francis’s posh car slid in front of his house that morning, the unnervingly beautiful boy behind the wheel smiling with tender, sweet dimples and waving a pastry at him calling, “Get in, Roderich!  We brought your breakfast!”  Tony waved a cup of pinkish juice at him from the passenger’s seat, taking a sip of the coffee in his other hand. 

                “Your friends seem nice,” Roderich’s mother said.  She was cautious, but too distracted to be worried.  She had a pen in her mouth.  “Are they taking you to school?”

                Roderich thought.  “Oh, yes,” he said.  For a moment he was relieved his mother hadn’t noticed Frankie and Tony’s private school uniforms. 

                When he climbed into the back of Frankie’s car, he said, “You had better be here to take me to school.”

                “Relax,” Tony sang, turning up the music on the radio with a few fingers, coffee precariously balanced.  It was all in French, some kind of European pop stuff.  The inside of Francis’s car smelled surprisingly nice, like freshly washed clothes or a tastefully floral perfume.  “Of course we are.”

                Tony handed Roderich the pinkish juice and Francis tossed back a crinkly paper bag with a chocolate pastry inside, flaky and sprinkled in powdered sugar like snow.  Roderich said, “I’m not sure I can eat this without getting crumbs everywhere.  Doesn’t that bother you?”

                “I have the car regularly cleaned,” Francis said, voice airy.  Roderich assumed money was no concern, here – a bit of a strange thought.  He wasn’t sure what Francis would sound like upset – maybe raw like ragged silk, maybe messy like makeup dripping down cheeks.  Part of him didn’t believe Francis could sound properly upset, but of course he knew that wasn’t true.  “I have to, with _my_ friends, mm?”

                Tony laughed, and said something about not being _too_ bad.  That was when Roderich noticed the Sharpie scribbles in Gilbert’s writing – funny that he noticed it was Gilbert’s writing, actually, but there was no one else’s it could be – on the corner of one of the backseat windows.  It was a date.  It was the day before yesterday’s date, actually, when they’d gone to the mini golf course and he and Gilbert had played on a toy piano at the diner.  His first proper date with someone other than Lizzie, Roderich thought, and then he realized Gilbert still didn’t know it had been a date.  Hadn’t it been?  Roderich still thought, then, that he could see Gilbert at school, so he focused on Tony and Francis in the front seat.  He consciously decided not to mention the Sharpie scribbles, in case Frankie would opt to scrub them clean right away.

                “What’s the occasion for all this?” Roderich asked.  “I don’t seem to remember you two showing up with food for me before.  Francis, you’ve been to my house, what… Once?  Should I be a little nervous?”

                “Oh, not at all,” Francis said. 

“It’s a little creepy,” Roderich muttered, not really meaning it.

“We’re not ‘creepy,’ certainly not.  Just innovative,” Francis answered, without missing a beat.

                “He has an excellent visual memory,” Tony said.  “He found your place because of the way the road changes color a little here – reddish or something? – and that one tree that’s twisted funny...”

                “Twisted like she’s tossing her hair and clutching her face,” Francis explained.  “Very striking.  I may have to draw her.”

                So many artists around, lately.  Roderich wondered whether Francis was more talented than Sadiq, and then wondered why it would matter.  It wasn’t like he and Lizzie were on opposing sides, or anything.

                “Alright then,” Roderich said.  “But still, what’s the occasion?”

                “You’re our friend,” said Tony, like it was a simple math question and he was surprised Roderich had somehow forgotten how to add.

                “We don’t need a reason to reach out to you, do we?” Francis smiled.  He flashed his smoky, evening-dark eyes back at Roderich, his smiles so light he reminded Roderich of paintings of angels.  “You’re friendlier this morning than I’d remembered you.  Tony certainly didn’t exaggerate.”

                They drove in amiable mostly-silence for a little while, Roderich nibbling at both the pastry and the idea that he might have the kind of friends who swung by his house to scoop him out of the cold on a whim, like it was the easiest thing in the world.  It made things feel different to imagine that, somehow.  Tony and Francis and Gilbert came as a set, it seemed, but a warm and welcoming set, full of inside jokes they were willing to share and presumably trips to tedious fencing competitions.  Francis and Tony’s fencing bags were both stacked on top of each other in the back seat next to Roderich, the sides closest to him reading “F. Bonnefoy” and “Get to the point!” facing upside down, respectively.  

                Roderich realized something.  “Hey,” he said, “Where _is_ Gilbert?  It seems odd to drive me to school without him.”

                Frankie smoothed his hair, frowning down at the road, murmuring something about patches of ice.

                “We don’t know where he is, actually,” Tony said, staring Roderich straight in the face with wide eyes.  “He’s not returning our calls.  I don’t think I need to tell you that that’s only happened once before – when he had to leave our school and our fencing team.”

                “You’re worried about him,” Roderich supplied.  “That’s why you came to pick me up.”

                “One of the reasons,” Frankie shot in, quick.  “We’re your friends, too.  _Please_ don’t forget.”

                It wasn’t a matter of forgetting, Roderich wanted to say, but he bit his tongue.  The pinkish juice was sweet and sharp, unfamiliar not altogether unpleasant.  The smell of Francis’s car could become soothing and friendly quickly enough, he thought.  For some reason, he didn’t really want to reject these olive branches, even if they came with ulterior motives.   It was easy to imagine Gilbert sitting beside him in this car, easy to imagine listening to the three of them banter and resting his head against the headrest, occasionally rolling his eyes or interjecting like Lovino must.  Easy to imagine himself drifting to sleep to the sway of the car and the softness of Francis’s laughter, to Gilbert’s boisterous exclamations, even. 

                “I didn’t hear from Gilbert at all yesterday.”  Roderich thought of his cell phone, still out of battery and buried in his drawer and added, “That I know of.”

                “Well, tell him to call us!  Tell him we want to help,” Tony suggested, leaning back to clap a warm, dark palm over Roderich’s hand.  “And if that doesn’t work, you just wheedle his problems out of him and then come tell us so we can work our magic.”

                “Don’t worry,” Francis smiled.  “He’s used similar tactics with both of us before, himself.  Gilbert understands a just turning of the tables.”

                “Alright,” Roderich said.  He was smiling, himself, he noticed.  It didn’t seem like it would be hard to help Francis and Tony out with something like this.  Gilbert would tell him most anything, wouldn’t he?  Roderich remembered how defenseless Gilbert had seemed in the detention room, just after he kissed his cheek, when it seemed like Roderich had endless power and anything could have happened.   It was almost nice to imagine himself with more power than Frankie and Tony here, more power than the bonds of the Bad Friends Trio.  Or, if he didn’t actually have that power, it was nice they thought he might.  “I’ll call you later and let you know how things are.”

                “You have our numbers?” Francis laughed.  “Should _we_ be nervous?  Who’s the innovative one now?”

                Roderich laughed before he managed to explain how Lizzie had passed along all their numbers, squished in as a set with Gilbert’s.  It was strange to laugh with near strangers, strange but not too bad. 

Tony held out a hand for the empty pastry bag, after a while, and Frankie called, “Have a nice day!  Don’t talk to strangers!” in a straight-faced, silky voice when he reached Roderich’s school.

…

There was an empty seat in Roderich’s math class that he wouldn’t have noticed, before.  Ludwig was supposed to be in it, hunched over his work, hair slicked back in a style Alice – Mrs. Kirkland? – had briskly referred to as “Draco Malfoy Lite.”  He was gone, and no one commented on the brief pause after his name was called during attendance.  Oh, well.  On to the next name.  Roderich would have liked to talk to Ludwig, he thought.

Worse, of course, no one came to pester Roderich as he sat slumped against the wall during lunch.  No one came for so long that he went off to hunt Gilbert down himself, wandering the halls, wandering the cafeteria.  Sadiq grinned, sheepish, maybe, and tried to wave him over to Lizzie’s friends’ table.  Roderich waved back, absently, but kept right on looking for shocks of silvery-blond hair, garish red hoodies and the like, swinging his backpack in one hand so it brushed his legs. 

No luck, of course.  He didn’t actually wind up eating. 

Most of Roderich’s day unfolded without note.  He got back more than decent grades in English, and it might have been his imagination but his music teachers seemed to smile at him for the first time in days.  He was doodling music and window curtains in the corner of his science notes when they called him over the loudspeaker.  They were window curtains with beams of light trickling in, as demonstrated by wavering lines that could just as easily have been indicators of a smell, or of heat.  It didn’t matter.  This time he didn’t flip the page as soon as he’d doodled something, but scribbled notes all around his window and his music and his squiggly, easy-to-misinterpret lines.  

Roderich didn’t realize he’d been called until someone he didn’t know well nudged him gently in the arm and said, “Hey, _you’re_ Roderich, aren’t you?”  

He was Roderich.  He gathered his things and slipped them as neatly as possible into his backpack and trudged back into the hallway.  He was in physics that semester, with Mr. Honda, who nodded at him as he left and told him to read chapters seven through nine before next class and answer the discussion questions.  Apparently Mr. Honda didn’t think he’d be coming back to class until after the end of the lesson.  Roderich couldn’t decide if that was ominous or not.  The discussion questions were on black holes and dark matter and other difficult to explain space phenomena.  He tried to think about that, walking to the principal’s office.

When he got there, his parents were sitting on wheelie chairs and the principal gestured for him to sit, too.  The principal was a small, round faced young man with a magnanimous voice, sometimes, who seemed to brace himself carefully before speaking.  The first few times he’d addressed the school, his hands had been shaking so badly they interfered with the microphone.  It was generally agreed that the principal was new to the gig, trying to lasso an already shitty school into some manner of order.  Roderich had spent so long thinking about the principal with sighs and a foreboding layer of guilt that he’d forgotten about all his playful desk ornaments, all his cheerful photographs of himself and his husband on skiing trips or playing chess.  It struck him, now, seeing the principal beam at him and call, “Good afternoon!  Glad you could make it!” that he’d stopped thinking of the principal as a person and made him just a symbol of his own failure.  Maybe he’d made the whole school a symbol of his failure. Maybe that would leak into other things, too, if he didn’t stop it.  Could the piano have become a symbol of his failure and guilt, in time, if he didn’t nip that in the bud? 

Now he’d never know, he hoped, but the thought was kind of disconcerting.

Roderich sat, and his parents shook the principal’s hand, and the principal told them to just call him Feliks and make themselves at home.  Would they like a taffy?  Gum?  No?  Alright.

“To make a long story short,” Feliks said, “It turns out your son was telling the truth about being uninvolved in the shady behavior that landed him in detention.  Isn’t that good news?”

It was good news for Roderich’s parents, but that didn’t stop them from being incensed.  Their son had been put through needless humiliation, after all, punished for something before the school had adequate proof.  It was negligence, plain and simple.  It was not to be tolerated.  It was a bunch of other things Roderich mostly tuned out.  This was good news for him, too, after all, perhaps more for him than anyone else, but that didn’t stop him from being confused and a little bit scared.  It didn’t stop him from wanting to confess the whole truth right there in front of the principal’s glittery collectable horses, but he didn’t. 

“What made you change your mind?” Roderich managed to squeeze into his parents and the principal’s conversation, after a while – the word “conversation” being used lightly, of course, as it had now devolved into something more like a tirade met with shrugs and confused apologies.   

Roderich kind of knew the answer before Feliks offered it, and he wasn’t sure if he should feel protective or like he’d been given a wonderful gift.   He felt a sad, sick mix of both, really – of course Gilbert had confessed all his crimes, and of course he’d left Roderich and Ludwig completely out of it, swearing up and down that their names were only dragged into the mud because of his desire to change things for the better for his loved ones.

That’s what Feliks said, too – “loved ones.”  Those had, apparently, been Gilbert’s words.

“It seems your son’s greatest crime was not looking a gift horse in the mouth – he got a good score for a test he failed, and decided not to question it.  Gilbert confessed to switching grades and classes around however he liked for…” Feliks tapped his fingers on the table, his nails long and apparently coated in clear polish.  “Um… Going on three years now.”

“That’s how long he’s been at this _school_ ,” Roderich murmured, and his surprise, at least, was genuine.  His mother squeezed his arm.

Feliks – Principal Feliks? – continued.  “He even showed us how he did it.  His brother, as you may know, was involved in the early stages, but… This behavior apparently reached far beyond anything your son could have anticipated.  Roderich, you didn’t know any of this was going on, did you?”

Roderich froze. 

There were two options, as it struck him in that rattling, horrible moment.  He could nod, and confess, and watch Feliks’s smile drain and his parents widen their eyes, scooting back on their wheelie chairs to see him better.  Or, he could shake his head, accepting Gilbert’s gift at the same time he hung him out to dry.

Roderich’s father barked, “Of course he didn’t.”

The principal grinned and folded soft gold hair behind his ear.  “That’s just as Gilbert told us,” he said.  “Just as Roderich’s been telling us this whole time.”

“You should have listened,” said Roderich’s mother, and Feliks said he knew.

Roderich didn’t do a damn thing.

He would dream about that moment later, he thought. 

He was right about that, at least.

…

 Roderich’s mother offered to drive him home from school early, but Roderich said there was something else he had to do first.  That “something else” involved slinking down, heart in his throat, to the sticky-stained detention room with the thundering plastic clock, to the rows of desks where he first started teaching Gilbert the piano.  Or, rather, teaching Gilbert to whack at scribbled drawings of piano keys howling off-key children’s songs.  Silly little songs to pass grim hours as Alice painted her nails or fiddled with gory horror novels in the front of the classroom.

Whatever he might have thought at the beginning of this detention session, there would be things Roderich would miss about those days.  He wondered what Gilbert had expected when he first drew a scratchy piano on that sheet of notebook paper.   Could he have known it would lead to cheek kisses, lead to sitting awkward and hoping in a diner, lead to anything at all? 

Roderich reached the detention room after school, but it was locked.  He tried the door a few times, as if things might change if he twisted the knob from a different angle, or something.  Nope.  He peered through the window at the shadowed desks, at the carpet so blurred and smeary you almost couldn’t make out all the stains. 

The room felt like ghost towns must look to the ghosts, Roderich thought, and then he shook that thought away and went looking for Alice.  He found her in the second-floor teachers’ lounge, apparently huddled around a game of Parcheesi with what looked like Alfred and the biology teacher, Mr. Matthew Williams.   Roderich waved at her through the glass and knocked on the door a couple times until she shuffled to her feet to say hi.   She was wearing fluffy slippers with little cat faces on them, and a pink and black skirt that was literally all ruffles.  She scowled.

“Mrs. Kirkland, Gilbert isn’t in detention today?  Detention… Isn’t happening today? ”

Alice made her eyes go wide and pressed a palm to her cheek.  “Gasp.  I guess not.  It’s a relief, right?”

“Uh…”  Roderich glanced over his shoulder; the halls around him were empty except for one kid sorting out her locker, muttering something to herself that Roderich couldn’t possibly hear.  “Would you mind if I stepped into the room for a minute, to talk to you?  Please?”

“No students allowed in the teachers’ lounge,” Alice drawled on reflex.

“Wanna play Parcheesi, Delinquent Number Two?” Alfred called, and Roderich was reminded of Alice’s nickname for him. Mr. Blue Sky.  He did seem awfully chipper in that grey hallway, in that grey winter.  “I’m losing pretty bad.  You could take over my seat and I’ll go grab something from the vending machine.”

“Don’t chicken out now,” Mr. Williams snickered.  Roderich had heard him snicker like that in AP Bio last year, right before he handed out the final exam.  “It’s like you’re trying to make me forget how incredibly competitive you’ve always been.  Just because you’ve mellowed out _now_ doesn’t mean the rest of us have to let you off easy.”

“Fine, fine,” Alfred laughed.

 Roderich heard a little clatter that could only be a dice roll.  Alice was standing with her arms spread across the doorway, dark-painted lips bunched up and brows still furrowed. 

“I won’t talk to you about Gilbert, kid,” she said, finally.  “I’m sorry.  You can come in, for just a minute, but then unless you’ve got club activities or something tonight I’m going to have to advise you go home.  Weather forecast calls for an actual _blizzard_.”  She shoved off from the doorframe and padded back to her chair. 

Roderich followed, closing the door behind him but still standing blank in the doorway.

“That’s right,” Mr. Williams said, grinning and pushing one of Alfred’s pieces back to Home, “About time we got some decent snow.”

“Makes me glad I actually shelled out the money for giant snow tires.  Huh, Alice?” Alfred said, propping his chin up on a palm and swirling his can of Coca-Cola like he thought it was a fine wine.  This was the first time Roderich had seen him not dressed in his work clothes or wearing a Han Solo costume.  Today, he wore ripped jeans and a shirt from the British National Museum instead.  Apparently Alice had taken him home to see the sights, or something, Roderich thought.    

“Ha-ha,” Alice said.  “It’s not like I actually need them.  I have you to chauffer me around, don’t I?  I could even just grab a ride home with your brother.”

“Sure, sure,” Mr. Williams shrugged.  He passed Alice the dice.  Roderich glanced between Alfred and Mr. Williams – sure enough, they looked a little similar, now that he thought about it.  Alfred had a bit more meat on him, and his hair was a brighter cornflakes shade of blond.  Mr. Williams’ hair curled slightly, and his eyes were a soft greyish violet that reminded Roderich of storm clouds. 

He wasn’t sure what to say, now that he was on the inside of the teacher’s lounge.  He wanted to ask where Gilbert was, but of course Alice wouldn’t talk about that.  He wanted to tell her the truth, so this gnawing in his stomach would calm down a bit and let him think clearly.  He wanted to go back to the smelly, dimly-lit classroom and teach Gilbert how to play something silly.  “Ring-Around-the-Rosie,” maybe – Alice would appreciate a song about the plague, wouldn’t she?

He almost said that.  He almost told Alice Kirkland, who was talking to her husband and brother-in-law about the likelihood of someone staying overnight at the school and freezing to death miserably, about wanting to teach Gilbert how to play “Ring-Around-the-Rosie” on a toy piano.  On a toy piano he had strapped to his back right that minute.

It would have been so easy to tell Alice how he’d lied to the principal about Gilbert’s crimes, in that moment.  She had been there the whole time, after all.  Her grades had been altered.  She was the one who had originally branded them Delinquents One and Two.

Finally, Alfred whispered – “Geez, that kid looks like he might cry.  Is that normal around here?”

“In Alice’s classes, absolutely,” Mr. Williams said.

Alice got up again and led Roderich to a couch.  She asked Alfred for an unopened can of Coke, which he offered without a word. 

“Drink this,” Alice said, suddenly stiff, “And then walk home.  Quickly.  I’m sure you don’t want frostbite chewing up your limbs, turning them blotchy and rotten so long before their time.”

“Such a sweetheart,” Alfred laughed.

“I know,” said Alice.

“Is Gilbert just being punished separately, now?  Does he still go to school here?” Roderich asked.  It was humiliating.  This show of dedication – this show of interest, even – was humiliating.  His voice didn’t crack as much as he was afraid it might, though.  He remembered Alice kissing Alfred at her desk in the detention room, and decided there wasn’t really any reason for him to be embarrassed in front of them.  Not about something like interest, something like hope. 

“Better drink that fast, if you want it,” Alice said, glancing at the window.  “Frostbite.”  And then, with more relish, “Gangrene.” 

…

                Roderich charged up his cellphone for the first time in forever that night.  He made plenty of phone calls – innumerable ones to Gilbert’s phone, met with a cheerful voice message which actually _did_ turn out to be Francis and Tony mimicking Gilbert’s voice in turn.  There wasn’t any answer, of course, not to any of his calls, and in time even Francis crowing, “It’s me!  The wonderful, awe-inspiring Gilbert!” wasn’t comfortably inane anymore.

                Roderich was sitting with his back pressed against his bed, glancing from piano medals pinned to a corkboard to the snow-struck wind howling outside his bedroom window.  He shivered a little, in pajamas and two sweaters, and dragged his comforter off the bed to wrap around his legs.  Then he made two more phone calls.

                First, to Tony –

                “Hello? It’s me, Roderich.”

                “Roderich!  What a night, isn’t it?  I guess you’re not one for texting?”

                Roderich kneaded a knuckle into his eye, feeling bleary, feeling himself fade.  “Mmm,” he managed.

                “Did you manage to talk to Gilbert?”

                “Not yet.”

                “He wasn’t at school?”

                Roderich groaned.  “He wasn’t, no.”

                He wasn’t sure what he’d expected Tony to say, but it definitely wasn’t, “Go to bed.  We’ll sort it out in the morning.  _Sleep_.”  But that’s what he got.

                Then he called Francis. 

                Francis answered with languid, dripping condolences – “God, that must be stressful for you!  And are you sick?  You sound sick,” – but he didn’t send Roderich away.  In fact, he gave him Gilbert’s address, and murmured something about acting on instinct before he seemed to fall asleep, himself.  He disappeared into hollow phone-space, anyway, with the line still running, numbers ticking up in Roderich’s hand.

                He had scribbled Gilbert’s address onto his arm.  He never wrote on his skin, usually.  It looked smeary, there, and required him to push up his sweater sleeves to reveal gooseflesh.   

                “Hello?  Hi?  Frankie?” Roderich called into the phone a couple times before he hung up.  He snickered, impossibly, and started getting dressed again.  Dressed, at least to Roderich’s mind, for a blizzard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter also features cameos by:  
> \-- Japan  
> \-- Canada  
> \-- annnnnnd Poland.
> 
> I'm pretty sure that's everybody for this chapter! :)


	10. “The Saints Go Marching” – Or, You were Together in the Snow

Roderich had never gone to someone’s home uninvited before, but he figured there was bound to be a first time for that just the same as anything else.  That’s what he told himself, anyway.  He’d slid his fingers on piano keys for the first time, once, and then allowed that “once” to become his world.  He’d stepped out in front of panels of judges for the first time once, too, trying to discreetly rub the sweat from his hands off on his slacks while still looking classy.  He’d lied to authority figures, by now, even, as strange as that might have sounded before this year. 

He could _do_ this.  For some reason, there in his room with his phone sitting silent and revved up, waiting for calls that wouldn’t come, it felt very important that he try.  Gilbert’s laugh might grate on him the second he heard it, but that couldn’t mean he didn’t want to hear it more than he could imagine wanting anything, in that moment.

                The idea of that laugh silenced, those gloating smiles drained, might have felt like a blessing once upon a time.  Like Gilbert finally getting his just desserts, learning gravity, learning quiet.  Somehow, things had changed between then and now.  Roderich was angry at his former self for all manner of failures and transgressions, but he’d never expected to regret willing Gilbert to shut up. 

Now, in this tempest-tossed, bone-chilled night, Roderich Googled Gilbert’s apartment’s address.  He didn’t print out the directions – his house was still and sleeping, by that point.  He couldn’t believe it – he was actually sneaking around.  Even as he snuck, he thought, “This is impossible,” but it didn’t stop him.  He climbed down the stairs as quietly as possible, very aware of his tensed muscles, very aware of the way the snowfall managed to muffle all the streetlights outside.  His mother’s keys were in her purse, hanging by the door.  Roderich eased them out from the ripped, worn-down bag, slowly, a slight twinkle, a slight jingle in the dark.  He thought about how his parents had lamented not being able to trust him, not being able to trust their only son.

Then he slipped the keys into his pocket. He layered on coats, making sure his driver’s license was in his pocket.  He went outside and the wind immediately sank a thousand frozen teeth into his skin, cold gnawing at him like he hadn’t felt in years.  He shuddered, pulling his scarf up over his mouth and nose, squinting into the wild whiteness all around him.  He’d imagined taking his mother’s car – it was an easy route, and her car was big, perfectly equipped for snow.  It would be fine on the roads, Roderich was convinced.  He just wasn’t sure he’d be able to see. 

He could wander blindly into the snow shaking in his worn old boots – worn like his mother’s purse was worn, worn because sometimes it was best not to throw things away – or he could wander blindly into the snow in a hulking metal death machine. 

Both options tasted hot and salty, tasted dangerous and full of more _passion_ than Roderich could remember feeling for anything but music.  That feverish, eager heat in a winter like this one could get him in serious trouble. 

Roderich thought, “I’ll see if the bus is running,” and it felt like a good compromise.  He pressed gloved hands over his burning cheeks, burning even from behind the scarf, and swiped snow out of his eyes.  Of course he locked the house door behind him.  Then he set off into the night, fool that he was.  He muttered to himself, “I hope you’re worth this trouble, Gilbert,” and then, “I hope you’re home, you inconsiderate dirt bag.”  He didn’t mean most of those words, but it felt better to say them.

Roderich walked to the bus stop, and waited with two or three other shivering nobodies.  The streetlights were occasionally swallowed by waves of snow – Roderich’s glasses iced over completely, so he took them off.  His breath dangled in frosty clouds around him, like he’d become a human smoke machine. 

One of the waiting nobodies didn’t look much older than Roderich.  He had rusty red hair and a piercing shaped like an arrow shot through his eyebrow.  His coat was ragged and had a toxic waste symbol emblazoned on the back, fraying at the edges.  He bared his smile – a rogue’s smile, Roderich thought without meaning to, as if this were a quest, as if this were some waypoint on a warrior’s road – and said, “I hope the bus comes.  I’m not from around here, either.”

Roderich wondered why it looked like he wasn’t from around here.  He wanted to say that he’d been born in this city, but he just looked away.  He remembered what Lizzie had said, about learning how she could use her keys like claws and jab someone’s eyes out if they scared her on the road.  This stranger had dark eyes, a little too steady and searching for Roderich’s liking.  He wouldn’t use the keys, he thought, unless he absolutely, absolutely had to.

The bus did come, and Roderich swayed his way up those stairs after the roguish, smiling stranger.  He paid his bus fare, and sat near the front.  The only people sitting on the bus so late looked kind of jarring in this garish light – he wouldn’t have looked at them twice in the daytime, but now he was overly aware that each of them had a story.  Each of them was like him, somehow – drawn out onto this slick road, the bus system’s snow route, for _some reason._    The smiling stranger was on the phone with someone called Monika, his voice brash and almost too honest in that silent bus, surrounded by strangers.  He got off at his stop, and a hunched lady with earrings shaped like fish got off at her stop.

The trees would be taller when they reached Gilbert’s neighborhood, Roderich knew – it was the old part of town, with the gray, crumbling streets and the mini-mart that closed earlier than anywhere else in the city.  No good restaurants were back there.  Only a few of the streetlights were still working, even, which made the snow seem thicker, the night deeper.  Roderich didn’t lean back against the seat.  Would Gilbert even be happy to see him?  Would he be intruding on something private, some business he wasn’t close enough to Gilbert to understand?  Would that matter?  Did Gilbert want him to see his home, anyway?  Roderich had never been invited over, had he?  Not even when they were friends in elementary school.

Finally, he didn’t have time to wonder about it anymore.  Here was a stop close to where Gilbert lived – it would have to be close enough, Roderich reasoned.  He climbed off the bus without meeting anyone’s eye, and braced himself against the cold.  He couldn’t have been ready for it.  He couldn’t have been ready to squint through the snow searching out apartment names, either, let alone apartment numbers.  He shown his phone’s screen like a flashlight, but wasn’t sure if it was dangerous to get the screen wet.  This was a dumb idea, he knew.

 He scolded himself with every step _.  A dumb idea._   How was he going to get home?  _A dumb idea._   Did he know the bus route?  _A dumb idea._   Was he even wanted here?  _A dumb idea._ How was he expecting to read street numbers in a blizzard?

A dumb idea, but somehow, impossibly, _important_. 

Roderich pushed up his sleeve, his skin blazing red and raw but mercifully not numb yet, and checked Gilbert’s apartment number one more time.  He searched a while.  He searched until he couldn’t feel his feet or hands anymore. 

When he found something that looked right, he wasn’t sure he could curl his fingers properly to knock, so he knocked with his boot.  A few shuddering kicks sent snow toppling down from the doorframe, as if Roderich needed any more snow to brush off his cheeks and out of the folds of his scarf. 

All was quiet for a second that stretched out on and on – and then a dog barked sharp and rough, and Roderich remembered Gilbert mentioning something about “big ass dogs.” 

…

There were two dogs – German Shepherds, one of them a dusky brown and the other white and pointy and, yes, as Alice had said, looking a little bit like Ludwig.  It was Ludwig who answered the door, actually, shoulders hunched and face guarded. 

“What are you, crazy?” he barked.  Yeah, he was kind of like that dog, wasn’t he?  Down to the piercing blue eyes and protective wariness.   

“Who’s there?” someone called from the room beyond.  This close and with the door open, Roderich could also hear sounds from a radio, or maybe a book on CD.  A woman was reading a slapstick, pun-filled mystery in a variety of funny voices, anyway.  “If it’s one of your football friends, I’m pretty sure we have some decent leftovers in the fridge.”

“You play soccer, don’t you?” Roderich chattered out.  “May I come inside, please?  I’m sorry.  I… Is Gilbert home?”

Ludwig licked his lips and shifted his weight, glancing back into the apartment.  “First – yes, Gilbert is home, but that’s only because he has to be.  Second – I guess you have to come inside, or I’ll wonder if I was complicit in your freezing to death for the rest of the night.  Third – I do play soccer.  My grandfather is from Rome.”  Ludwig sighed, and stepped out of the doorway, just a little, just enough for Roderich to get through.  “Don’t make me regret this,” he whispered.  “Shhh.”

Roderich had imagined Gilbert’s home a few times over the last couple weeks, but he’d only ever guessed vaguely at the details.  He hadn’t actually expected to find swords hung on the wall, looking like heirlooms, despite how often Gilbert talked about knights – he hadn’t expected any glass cases full of family artifacts and old paintings of people in antique military uniforms.  They looked, at least to Roderich, kind of out of place in a small apartment in the oldest part of town.  There were statues, too, statues of women with slipping, flowing dresses and flowers behind their ears; statues of heroes brandishing metal swords and snarling; statues of serpentine, slobbering hydras, of chimeras, of fauns with flutes and crooked, beckoning smiles.  Ludwig’s – and Gilbert’s – grandfather was sitting on a velvety red couch with his feet propped up, in front of a lush, elaborate painting of the woods.  There were dark and foreboding trees in that painting; there was a river running glinting and red.  There was a woman that looked kind of like Gilbert, with silvery blonde hair and a mad, dashing smile, running through the fields and towards the darkness, running like she couldn’t be scared of anything.

The painting was signed, “Ti.”  Roderich knew without really thinking on it that Gilbert’s grandfather would introduce himself as Ti – and so he did, clicking off his audiobook and asking if Roderich liked culinary mysteries, too – just as he knew Gilbert’s grandfather was blind.  His face was softer than Gilbert’s or Ludwig’s, gentle and lined.  Ludwig told him who Roderich was, and he grinned, mischievous. 

“The mysterious _Roderich_ ,” Ti chuckled.  His voice had a raw sort of warmth to it, which was actually kind of like Gilbert’s voice when his eyes got gentle.  “I’ve waited years to meet you, you know that?”   

Roderich took off a glove and shook Gilbert’s grandfather’s hand, and asked if Gilbert was around.  If he wouldn’t mind coming out and talking with him a little while.

“I’m supposed to say ‘no,’” Ti said.  “My wife has both of our boys on official house arrest, for the time being.  But you came all this way, didn’t you?”

“He shouldn’t have,” said Ludwig.

“Shouldn’t have _what_?” demanded Gilbert’s voice, from the hallway.  His steps squeaked all up the carpet, and when he saw Roderich his jaw came unhinged and he braced himself on the wall.  His hair was rumpled, sticking up in the back like he’d been lying on it.  He was wearing mismatched socks, again, and his shirt was much too big for him.  It was slipping off one of his shoulders, but he hadn’t thought to pull it up yet.  “Roderich,” he breathed, and no one had ever said Roderich’s name in quite that hopeful, wanting way before. 

There, Roderich thought.  There had been a reason to come out this far. 

“You didn’t answer your phone,” Roderich breathed.  It wasn’t the right thing to say, probably.  He’d never been good at knowing the right thing to say.  “I was worried.”  He could have said that Frankie and Tony had been worried too – he could have, but he didn’t want Gilbert to think about that just yet.  He wanted Gilbert to take steps forward, towards him.  He wanted Gilbert’s self-satisfied smile to come coursing back.  He wanted him to realize his own value, his own power, and start crowing about it like old times. 

If Ludwig and Ti hadn’t been there, Roderich would have said something about being sorry he let Gilbert take the fall for both of their decision.  There wasn’t any use in pretending he wasn’t at fault, anymore – there had never been any use, just stubborn pride.  Roderich would have explained his weakness, and explained all the reasons he would try to make that up to Gilbert, now.  He would have dropped his soaked-through clothes to the floor and seen if Gilbert tried to warm him.  He would have thanked Gilbert for trying to look out for him, and tried to tease Gilbert about trying to look out for him in a way that came back to kick them both in the ass.

As usual, Roderich’s teasing would have come out stiff, and rolled right off Gilbert’s back, only making him smile wider, fiercer.  Roderich hoped that’s what would have happened, anyway. 

Instead, Gilbert said, “My phone was confiscated, by order of Grandmother’s Law.”  He said Grandmother’s Law so Roderich _knew_ both words would be capitalized.   Roderich coughed a little laughter.  He was dizzy – maybe a happy, lolling sort of dizzy, with his legs hurting as they thawed and his head pounding.  Gilbert let a ghost of a smile flicker back on his face when Roderich laughed.  “I’m sorry,” he said. 

“Don’t be sorry,” said Roderich.  “Not _this_ time.” 

Then Gilbert smiled properly, and Ludwig clomped back to his room, and Ti said, “Even if Roderich can’t stay, you can offer him something to drink, Gilbert.”

“Watch it,” said Gilbert’s grandmother.  She had been reading in bed, clearly, if the thick academic-looking book dangling in her hand was anything to go by.  The title was in German, so Roderich couldn’t really know what it was about.  Her hair was long and silvery, even if it was no longer blonde – she was clearly the woman in Ti’s painting, racing into the shadows with Gilbert’s mad smile on.  Now, she was scowling, dark shadows under her eyes and a bathrobe knotted neatly at her waist.  “It sounds _almost_ like you boys are violating the discipline terms we discussed.”

  “No, no,” said Ti.  “It’s only that the kid will freeze to death if we send him back out into the snow.”

“Gilbert, did you get him to come over here?” Gilbert’s grandmother demanded.  Roderich was familiar with the sort of expression she was wearing – not anger, really, so much as disappointment.  He cut in quickly.  It didn’t even occur to him until later that he might be overstepping his boundaries.

“Please – ma’am – no.  No, I came here on my own… Gilbert wasn’t at school, he wasn’t _answering_.  I usually teach him piano in detention and –” Why was it so difficult to talk all of a sudden?  “And I missed him.  I wanted to make sure he was alright.”

“Can he please, please sleep on your couch, Grandpa?” Gilbert asked.  “I’d become the official chore master of the apartment, for however long.”   

“Afraid not,” said Ti, and Gilbert’s grandmother nodded.

“I have to drive him to the bus stop, then,” Gilbert said.  His voice was different, somehow, than when he was pleading.  He squared his shoulders just a little bit, and Roderich imagined him hefting this inherited sword off the wall behind him and falling into a fluid, natural fighting stance, just as easy as breathing.  “We have to wait in the car, or something.  With the heater on full blast.  It’s ridiculous tonight.”  Gilbert flashed Roderich sharp eyes and something like that old, familiar smile.  “I never thought I’d have to thank _you_ for being ridiculous.”

“You _have_ to drive him to the bus stop?” Gilbert’s grandmother asked.  Her lip ticked up into a half-smile.  She would be very pretty if she smiled, Roderich thought.

“I wouldn’t forgive myself if I didn’t,” Gilbert said. 

“Go, then,” said Gilbert’s grandmother.

“There’s my girl,” said Gilbert’s grandfather. 

“And we’ll let him call Gilbert when he gets home safely,” Gilbert’s grandmother added.  “One call – simple, and sweet, as a precaution.”

Gilbert himself said, “Wait here just a second, Roderich.  I’ll get more coats – you can leave those here.  They’re soaking wet.  Did you shake trees to get extra snow to fall on you or something?” 

“Absolutely,” said Roderich, sarcastic, and it was a nonsense-thing.  It was the sort of response Alice might have given, bantering with Alfred.  It didn’t sound too much like him at all – maybe more like the self waiting inside his head, giving commentary no one else got to hear.

Roderich waited, anyway, and Ti told him about his statues, saying he figured Roderich must have been admiring them. He talked about how interesting it was to feel their contours and learn to experience faces and art in different ways since losing his sight.  He spoke briskly, gently.  It sort of made Roderich think of what Gilbert had said in the diner, when he’d been worrying over their futures – he remembered Gilbert saying something about a career as a polished concert pianist or as a music teacher being of equal value.  Maybe that was true.  Maybe Roderich could find something valuable in many different career paths, as long as he made his own art the focus of the work.  His own experience could be the focus, whatever the medium, whatever the label.  The idea felt real now, more tangible.  Like something people could actually do. 

Maybe that’s not what Gilbert meant.  It almost certainly wasn’t what Ti was talking about.  He probably just wanted to make conversation in that awkward, chilly waiting space, something that his wife would approve of.

Maybe that didn’t matter.  Roderich listened, and when Gilbert came back he put on all the coats he was offered.  Gilbert hung Roderich’s wet things on the backs of chairs, and his grandmother tsked, and Gilbert said, “I’ll wash them when I get home,” as if this were natural, as if he would be willing to do this every day.

Gilbert waved at the doorway and said, “Back in a flash,” with a self-satisfied smirk that warmed Roderich up inside, somehow.

As soon as they crossed out into the snow, Gilbert pulled Roderich into his arms, squeezing him close.  Roderich froze for just a second, dizzy, and then held him back, breathing in the hotel-shampoo, chips-in-bed smells of him, feeling the world click back into balance again. 

“Thank you,” Roderich whispered.  “I’m sorry for –”

“I missed you, too,” said Gilbert. 

“I expected to see you sooner, after our date,” said Roderich.

Gilbert laughed so his shoulders shook, and hefted Roderich up in his arms for just a moment, pressed tight against his chest, warm and skinny and probably still wearing that giant shirt underneath his winter jackets.  Snow was splattering on their skin like a thousand freezing kisses, and Roderich’s glasses had become opaque like shower glass again.  Roderich’s feet left the ground, and he realized he hadn’t expected Gilbert to be able to lift him. 

When they’d talked about the horror of receiving four weeks detention, Gilbert had said something about facing far worse things than that, in the past.  Roderich had assumed that just meant he was bragging about being a troublemaker.  But Gilbert was strong, stronger than expected.  He bowed his head into storms, into punishments, into his own often self-made problems and came out still able to set Roderich back on the ground and beam at him.  His smile stretched too wide.  “Of course you’d risk the snow to see me, after a date like that,” he said, voice shaking just once.  Roderich pretended he didn’t notice.  “I rescued your mini-golf ball too many times to deserve anything less.”

“Really?” said Roderich, as dryly as he could.

Then Gilbert offered him a hand, and led him to his grandparents’ car.

…

It wouldn’t have taken very long to drive to the bus stop if it were clear out.  As it was, Gilbert had the windshield wipers going as fast as they could, and he was squinting desperately into the night, creeping along at under five miles an hour.  Roderich slumped back into his seat, suddenly exhausted, the strength draining out of his limbs almost completely.  He watched Gilbert assuming some manner of control, piloting them both through the storm –he watched Gilbert chewing on his still-scabbed over lip, focusing on the road and all this tossing, howling snow.  Gilbert’s cheeks and nose were starting to go stinging red again. 

They talked about some things on the way to the bus station, but certainly nothing that Roderich would have thought important.  They didn’t talk about Gilbert’s new punishments, or school at all, really – they talked about Ti’s goofy mystery novels, instead, and what they liked to watch and read.  Gilbert managed to guess a few of Roderich’s favorite books – or perhaps he just _remembered_ them, somehow.  They talked about how many generations the family’s old swords had traveled through, and how next time they played mini-golf Gilbert was going to demonstrate how good he actually was at the game. 

Roderich said he doubted it, and Gilbert said, “I’ll prove it to you, as soon as I’m a free man.”

A free man.  They _were_ almost men, weren’t they?

For what might have been the first time, growing up didn’t feel like an ominous thing, to Roderich.  Not driving in the snow with Gilbert, on Gilbert’s team.  Not right there.  Not then.

When they got to the bus stop, they sat with the headlights blazing thin, wavering golden trails through the cold. 

Roderich described what sort of home he wanted to have, someday – it started with a refined, tasteful old mansion and eased gently into a comfortable apartment, big enough for a piano but not big enough to feel lonely.  Gilbert said that sounded nice, if a little obvious.

Roderich said, “You wouldn’t have been able to guess it, though.”

Gilbert said, “Are you sure you want to try me?  We’ve known each other a long, long time.”

Apologies dangled on the air, cold and sharp as their frosty breath.  Explanations, excuses, what have you, it all drifted between them on the frozen air.  Then, Roderich leaned in and kissed Gilbert as smoothly and earnestly as he knew how, bracing himself against the back of Gilbert’s chair – his arms were still shaking, he realized – and closing his eyes only once he knew he’d aimed right.

They kissed long, and deep.

Roderich didn’t know how long.  He did know that Lizzie had never kissed his neck, shy and searching, and Lizzie had never been so graceless as to accidentally elbow him and then interrupt kissing to murmur, “Well, fudge.”

The glare of headlights flashed through Roderich’s eyelids, but he didn’t look to see if it was the bus.  He pulled back and traced Gilbert’s ears, though, after a while – they’re still big ears, he thought, and he was glad of it – and Gilbert tapped a playful finger against the birthmark on Roderich’s chin as if in answer.  That must have been something Gilbert thought about, sometimes, that birthmark.  Who would have known?

“Am I a bad kisser?” Roderich asked.  It seemed that if there were any safe place to ask something like that, it would be here.

“I wouldn’t know,” Gilbert said, settling himself back down into his seat.  “First kiss, and all that.  But I’ll give you a passing score, anyway.”

Roderich laughed, not thinking.  He almost couldn’t think.  Maybe it was the kissing.  Maybe it was his headache.  He thought about staying home sick from school, and his dream about playing the piano as salt water nibbled away at him, maybe dragging him deeper and deeper into the ocean.  He thought about what might have happened if he had stumbled up and walked through the waves to join Gilbert at the shore.

They talked a little more.  Not too much, but enough.  Roderich wasn’t sure when his dizziness turned into faintness, turning into a flickering, feverish sleep.  He wasn’t sure except that Gilbert snapped his fingers in front of his face a few times, saying, “Roderich?  Are you still with me?”

Roderich remembered the snow, and Gilbert patting his cheek and starting panicked, incoherent half-sentences.  He remembered the pounding in his head seeming to match the pounding of the windshield wipers.  Seeming to match the pounding of the snow.  He remembered all the cold seeming to drip away into heat, incredible heat, and then there was nothing for a while.

…

Roderich woke up in his own bed.  His head was swimming; Gilbert’s coats were folded neatly on the floor next to him, soaking in a pool of melted snow.  Sunlight whispered through the window – just a little, and still frosty-grey, but sunlight all the same.    

Roderich remembered kissing Gilbert at the bus stop, closing his eyes and falling into those kisses to see if they clicked for him.  He remembered passing out in Gilbert’s grandparents’ car, brain fogging up like the car windows, like his glasses.  He remembered the last thing he'd said being something about wondering what sort of gingerbread house Gilbert would make, if he had all the candy in the world.  He thought, “I’ve never been so humiliated in my life,” but that wasn’t an altogether bad thing.  Just somewhat bad.  He hoped his mother had gotten her keys back. 

Maybe his parents were at work.

Maybe he’d somehow, impossibly, been smuggled into bed during the night without them ever finding out he was away.

Probably not.

Roderich was sure he’d find out sooner or later.  He was sure he’d be able to face the answers, too, even if he didn’t much like them.

His phone was on his nightstand, with a few scribbles on ripped-out notebook paper propped up next to it.  There was a scratchy sketched piano and a castle with waving banners – there were two words, “Read Me!” and an arrow swerving to point at his phone.

Roderich opened the phone, trying harder than he thought should’ve been necessary to keep his hands steady and his eyes open.

He read Gilbert’s text message, and it wasn’t really like any text message he had ever expected to receive.  It was written like an old-fashioned letter, for one thing, beginning with a cheerful – or sarcastic? – “Dearest Roderich” and ending with, “Yours, as you damn well know, Gilbert.”

The note was long, almost too long for Roderich to read without a bit more sleep. 

There were some parts of it he would remember for ages, though.  There was the bit where Gilbert claimed to have carried him home clutched rescue-style in his arms, battling snow and storm and honking traffic to get him safe to bed.  Then there was the bit where Gilbert laughed that image away and said he’d actually called Ti in a panic, babbling incoherently and asking if it was possible to die from a really bad fever.

Gilbert said, “You haven't managed to pass your deadly fever-germs on to me yet, so if that’s what you were going for in kissing me you failed.  If not, congratulations.”

Gilbert said, “I hope you’ll still teach me piano sometimes. Over winter break, anyway.  I know to you those were probably just silly little songs.  Kids’ songs.  But they were more than I’d honestly thought you would teach me.  And wasn’t I right?  Didn’t I pick them up fast?”

Roderich was smiling when he fell back to sleep.  He never responded to that, Gilbert’s first proper text message to him – proper love letter? – but in the end he hadn’t been expected to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE LAST PROPER CHAPTER... ends here. :O 
> 
> I hope you like it. <3 If you've stuck with SLS this long, thank you. I'm really touched that people have seemed to care about this story. 
> 
> This chapter also features cameos by:  
> \-- 2p America, as written by me.  
> \-- Rome  
> \-- Nyotalia??? Germania


	11. Epilogue -- Or, Für Elise

It had been a handful of springtimes since high school, and they always seemed to take Roderich by surprise.  He would be surrounded by grey, the city frozen and waiting, and then, like magic, everything keeping the green world locked up just melted away.  Light shivered through his and Gilbert’s apartment window, warm and watery golden, like it was going to rain sometime.  Just not quite yet. 

 Papery flowers fluttered on the trees outside, a few petals drifting down to land on the sidewalk.  Each petal was tossed by the wind that shook it free of its comfortable branch, lost, for a little while that might have seemed like an eternity.  Swept away and unknowing, without a firm foundation, without a tree or earth to believe in.  Roderich watched petals fall, and he thought he knew how they felt, at least a little.  He was probably being silly.  Lizzie would have said he was being silly or self-indulgent, and sometimes you need a friend to say that.  But Gilbert would have nodded, trying to keep his face solemn, and pointed out that the winds always quieted eventually, and most flowers landed in the grass, or got nibbled at by caterpillars.  Sometimes Roderich needed Gilbert to feign sorrow at all the flowers lost to caterpillar attacks more than anything in the world.

He needed a chance to roll his eyes and conjure up a snide comeback.  He needed to watch Gilbert snicker through a haze of sleep as he poured absurd amounts of sugar into his coffee in the morning, and he needed to come to terms with the fact that spring came every year, maybe not when or how he expected it. 

Their apartment wasn’t like the old, luxurious, dimly-lit mansion that sometimes played across Roderich’s eyelids when he was falling asleep.  He didn’t wear any cravats, or order around servants, or even drive a car that wasn’t breaking down all the time.  In a way, what he had was better than his daydreams had ever been, even if it was messy.  Especially because it was messy.  This last Halloween, he and Gilbert had dressed up like Bruce Banner and Iron Man, which was a compromise that had suited Roderich just fine.  Meant he only had to wear a suit and tie to Tony and Lovino’s Halloween party, and he was still in the spirit of things in every way that mattered, to the people that mattered.  Gilbert still made ridiculous sound effects, animating his costume, and he had an enormous Lego castle slowly being assembled on what was supposed to be their dining room table. 

But enough about that.  That wasn’t what this moment was about.

This moment, with the watery golden light glinting off the polished piano keys and making Roderich realize just how dusty his rows of trophies had gotten, was about Gilbert giving Roderich a concert.  Gilbert had pushed a wheelie chair up a little ways from the piano and draped a table cloth over it, as if green lace could disguise that it was the paint-stained chair from his desk.  He had opened the window, so a breeze that smelled like flowers and cigarette smoke and the road that wasn’t really _too_ far away could trickle in.  Roderich sat in the chair, and his throat was tight, tasting something sharp and sweet that wasn’t quite like tears, but almost.  He smiled, encouraging and broad – not a pretty smile, but one that he knew Gilbert would appreciate.  He smiled like he wouldn’t have allowed himself to in detention all those years ago.  He hadn’t even learned how to smile like this, by that point.  Maybe Gilbert had taught him, but probably not.  He’d just picked it up somewhere along the way, like dust on his shoes, or the lines by his eyes that might show up further down the road.

Gilbert bowed, and it was a joke, but at the same time it wasn’t a joke at all.  He was wearing jeans and a button-down shirt, with his hair combed and his hand braced on the arm of the piano.  He pulled out of the bow and grinned, all too familiar, like a mad scientist. 

“I even memorized it,” he chortled.  “I hope you like it.”

“What is it?” Roderich asked.  Lately, Gilbert practiced while Roderich was at work, or getting groceries, or even, he suspected, slipping out to get the mail.

Gilbert winked, and ruined the effect by saying, “Wink!” in a little sing-song voice as he did so.

Then he sat down, himself, in front of the piano, and played “Für Elise.”  It wasn’t perfect – his fingers stumbled, and he rushed through some passages with a little less care than Roderich himself would have taken.  But that was what made it _his_ , and that’s why Roderich lifted a hand to cover his smile as it stretched just that little bit wider.  The sun was in Gilbert’s hair, and dancing across the piano keys with his fingers.  It _would_ snow again, someday, probably in just a few months.  But that didn’t matter anymore.

Roderich watched Gilbert lean into the music, as if he was trying to feel it in his bones, trying to communicate to Roderich like no one else had ever done for him before.  Roderich watched Gilbert, and he listened to the music.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There you have it, Jen, and there you have it, Internet. :) <3 HAPPY SUPER LATE BIRTHDAY AGAIN, O Jennifer! I'm lucky to have you as a friend.
> 
> Thanks for reading, to all of you, of course. <3 If you've taken the time to sit down and read this story, I'm honored, and I hope you've gotten joy out of it. I'm sorry it took me so long to post everything. 
> 
> I had always intended this story to end on a certain image... One with a lot of sunlight.


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